Whiskers and Wheels - A Game of Thrones Tail
by HodorSavedMyCattle
Summary: Rascally rogue Ser Pounce and his trusty companion/get-away vehicle Prince Doran solve mysteries and help out those in need.
1. Chapter 1 - Fisherman's Friend

WHISKERS AND WHEELS - A GAME OF THRONES STORY

GREETINGS DEAR FRIENDS

IT IS THAT TIME ONCE AGAIN, AROUND LATE APRIL, WHERE WE RETURN TO THE MAGICAL WORLD OF WESTEROS AND COMPLETELY FUCK UP THE CANON

FOR YOU SEE, THE GAME OF THRONES TV SHOW IS A WEE BIT TOO HARROWING AND BLEAK FOR MY LIKING

LIKE GRATUITOUS DEATH AND TITTIES ARE ALL WELL AND GOOD, BUT WHERE'S THE GOOD HEARTED FRIENDSHIP AND CHEERFUL CAMARADERIE?

WE WISH TO BRING LIGHT TO THIS NEGLECTED PORTION OF THE WORLD WITH OUR NEW AND COMPLETELY CANON INSTALMENT TO THE SERIES

SO SIT BACK AND RELAX WITH A BEVERAGE AND/OR TASTY SANDWICH OF YOUR CHOICE (MAY I RECOMMEND SMOKED HAM AND CHEESE - NO BEVERAGE RECOMMENDATION THOUGH, I'M NOT ONE TO DICTATE A MAN'S BEVERAGE CHOICES)

THIS NEEDN'T BE TYPED IN CAPS TO BE HONEST, IT'S RATHER MENIAL TALK

AIGHT LET'S GO

Chapter 1 - Fisherman's Friend

So we were reading the start of the New Testament for inspiration to figure out how to start this story, because surely this story will be on par with that literary text, but all we got was just a bunch of fucking names of random people who begat some other people. Some of the names were pretty funny though, like Roboarm and Manasses. Hopefully the trend of funny names will continue in this text.

Today we take you to the beautiful place known as King's Landing, where all the really fun bits of Game of Thrones take place. Featuring Cersei Lannister, who is not in this, because she is boring and it's proper gross that she has sex with her brother, eww. King's Landing also has some other more interesting elements, such as ubiquitous bordellos and bawdy-houses, many a plague running around, and of course, the gentlest of leaders, Ser Pounce. Now Ser Pounce is a cat, but that doesn't mean he can't make friends like the best of them. And his best friend was the King, but unfortunately, the King is also the boring character, so we're gonna shun him, push him to one side like a metaphorical boring paperweight, and give Ser Pounce a more worthy accomplice; a much more interesting, yet criminally underused badass. BUT MORE ON THAT LATER.

Now as we join the story, Ser Pounce is midway into an exciting drama-filled carriage chase; he is being hounded (get it? Cats are not a fan of hounds! Banter.) by the Faith Militant, who are aggravated by his agnosticism in the face of this city of piety and religious indoctrination. He is a glitch in their system, a loose end that must be tied up with violence, lest his lackadaisical attitude towards prayer spread to the general populace. May it be said that Ser Pounce did not intend to cause trouble; on the contrary, he is but a cat, and cats are not renowned for their piety. Shit, they're not really renowned for doing much. Like my cat's an asshole, I'm not a fan of him. But that's a minor digression, because though my cat is a shit, Ser Pounce is a unanimously loved rapscallion with a heart of gold and a smile that charms even the most cold-hearted of men.

So yeah, they're chasing him, through the streets, shouting stuff like 'Shame on you, you damn pussycat!' and 'Ah, ya cunt!' and other such defamatory things. But Ser Pounce is not one to be harmed by mean words; he isn't a knight for no damn reason! He has the courage of ten lions, and twice as many whiskers! I don't know what I'm writing! We're three paragraphs in and already it's falling apart!

So anyway. Ser Pounce whips at the reins and his horse run faster, whipping round a corner in a dramatic flash, the wheels of the carriage clacking against the cobblestones. The Faith draw in closer, whipping impotently at their reins as they start to lose Ser Pounce, who's riding prowess is unmatched by man or cat-kind. Suddenly, Ser Pounce notices a flagpole. Ah, he thinks. A perfect opportunity for slapstick shenanigans! I shall evade these mutton-headed prig-nappers and fly away!

He leaps from his seat and atop the carriage, staring back at his opponents with a wide grin. They glare at him, eyes ablaze with helpless fury, knowing fully well that Ser Pounce has already won. With eyes of fire, Ser Pounce yells at his opponents, glee in his voice. 'Ladies and gentlecats, you will always remember this day as the day you almost caught… Ser Pounce!' And with a congratulatory flick of his tail at a well-delivered catchphrase, he leapt off of the carriage and with graceful cat-like agility, clambered up the flagpole with lightning speed. He took a brief moment to glance back down at the ground, where he noticed the High Sparrow throwing his hat on the ground and stomping on it in a rage, that he would let this dazzling braggadocio evade capture once again.

As he reached the top of the flagpole (which was quite a tall flagpole, by the way), he gazed around at the sprawling cityscape before him, a industrialising stain on a world otherwise untouched by the scourges of man. And he thought to himself, gee, I reckon from this height, I can get across the ocean! And so he did.

Equipping his flying goggles, he calculated the direction and trajectory of his leap of faith; though as previously established, Ser Pounce did not have faith. He only had his cat-like wits and charming demeanour. With one big breath and a lot of courage, he leapt into the sky.

He travelled for miles on that one graceful bound, scanning the land as it flew beneath him in a flurry of colour. Truly a graceful sight, commented a passing fishermen who frequented Ser Pounce's flight path. Ser Pounce, recognising a good conversation, quickly stopped in mid-air, suspended mid-flight next to the fisherman's head.

'Oh, hello Ser Pounce!' said a surprised fisherman.

'Why hello there, good sailor!' replied Ser Pounce.

'Well well, I didn't know a cat could fly!' noted the fisherman.

'Well that's a coincidence! I didn't know a fisherman could fly!' said Ser Pounce, a twinkle in his eye.

And with a gracious swipe of his mighty claw, the fisherman was flying too! He whooped, flipped around in mid air in joy. As the two new chums flew above the clouds, the fisherman said, 'Woah! I can see the Eiffel Tower from here!' Ser Pounce just chuckled.

Suddenly, the fisherman's ecstatic look turned to one of sudden shock! 'But wait! What about my fish?'

Ser Pounce's sudden concern at the plights of his friend changed to a wry smile. 'Why friend, there's plenty more fish in the sea!' They both laugh, before diving under the water to have a whimsical underwater exploration adventure, which we will not discuss here, because Disney is getting awfully close to suing us.

Meanwhile, in the beautiful if poorly utilised land of Dorne, murder and treachery is afoot! For you see, some irrelevant Spanish bitches committed an atrocity most foul against one Doran Martell, and the other guy who I think is called Areo. I don't know. You don't know. Don't pretend you know. If you are a book fan and you claim to know then… why are you reading this? Like, why have you got this far in? In fact, why has anybody got this far in? Like I know it's amazing, but it's also terrible.

Anyway. Murder is bad. Doran is in a bit of a pickle. One could say, he made a right kettle of fish out of this whole not dying malarky. But speaking of fish, our charismatic hero and his fishy friend are here to help!

'Gee, Ser Pounce, is that a dead body?'

'No, dear fisherman,' said Ser Pounce. 'That is TWO dead bodies.' He nodded sagely. Truly an excellent observation from our great leader.

'What a jarring juxtaposition to the previously whimsical nature of this adventure!'

'Indeed.' He took off his flight goggles and rushed to the scene of the murder. Yeah they're on foot now. They landed a while ago. They had their own adventure, it was great. The fisherman has got like, a real big fish to prove it. He has it in a big plastic bag, but we're not going to bring it up again, because it's not beneficial to the story. We just felt the need to make this clear, should any potential readers feel the need of being pedantic about the story's continuity. Though I don't see why you would, seeing as so far it's nitpick-proof.

'My dear fisherman, help me with this man! Hold his left leg whilst I give him the Kiss of Life!'

'B-but, Ser Pounce! You're so small! And a cat! Your lungs are probably quite small, and the probability of you reviving this man with mouth-to-mouth would have been unlikely even if you were a human, because of that huge fucking stab wound in his chest! Are you sure this will work?'

Ser Pounce looked at the fisherman with a serious look. 'Fisherman, what I know is that when a person is in need, the power of love will always prevail.' The fisherman, awestruck by such beautiful words, kept silent, and held the leg as instructed.

Ser Pounce started licking Doran's face, and then Doran's eyes opened once more! Holy shit!

'W-what?' queried Doran, looking around him for those irrelevant Spaniards. 'What happened?'

'I don't know what's happened to you previously, but you have a new life now.' Ser Pounce put his paw on Doran's shoulder. 'For inside you, I see adventure! Hope! Bountiful joy! Together, you and I shall ride in your wheelchair throughout the lands, bringing hope to those weak and without hope and terror to those corrupt enough to abuse their power.'

Doran nods, knowing all that has to be said has already been said.

The fisherman says, 'But Ser Pounce! What about this other man? Shall you not save him?'

Ser Pounce looks to an invisible camera. 'No, I don't need to. I don't need to save this guy. He's massive. He's huge. A stab wound in the back like that shouldn't have killed him. It shouldn't have even hurt him all that much. There is no way that he would have died. Stupid writing. Lazy writing. Idiotic foolish bullshit spawned from the scribblings of a fool with no regard for good Dornish characters. Fuck off.'

Areo nods in response. He was, after all, still alive, because this is a serious story with a strong acknowledgement of realism.

As the fisherman puts Doran back in his wheelchair (Ser Pounce couldn't have done something like that, that'd be impossible), Ser Pounce looks off into the distance, hopeful that tomorrow will bring happiness to new people, and smite those who he deems to be cunts.

Gee, I sure hope that these writers will make something of my character, thought Doran as he began to spin the wheels of his wheelchair and clunk down the flight of stairs. Ser Pounce, his trusty sword, the Whisker, in his mouth, followed afterwards.

'But wait! Ser Pounce! What are me and Oreo to do!' cried the fisherman, anguish in his voice.

'Do what you do best, fisherman friend! Make me a fishy meal fit for Zeus himself! That is, presuming Zeus was a fan of fish! I'm not really too well cultured in my Greek mythology, or at least not in that department. As previously established, I am no pious feline, and this isn't even a belief system that is canon in this overall world.' Areo and the fisherman gave Ser Pounce blank looks.

'I'll be back in time for supper!' he said with a laugh. Areo and the fisherman did too. Doran did not, for he was still slightly shaken about having been brought back from the dead, which is understandable.

AND SO BEGAN THE GREATEST ADVENTURE IN THE SEVEN KINGDOMS.

IF YOU GUYS ARE AT ALL INTERESTED IN THIS SHIT, FEEL FREE TO SUBSCRIBE? OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO ON THIS FUCKIN WEBSITE? IT'LL BE OUT ROUGHLY EVERY WEEK.

PLUS, IF YOU LIKED THIS QUALITY CONTENT, CHECK OUT OUR PREVIOUS WORKS. THEY'RE SIGNIFICANTLY WORSE THAN THIS. AND TWO OF THEM ARE NOT FINISHED. ONE OF THEM IS ABOUT MATERIAL MOST OF YOU WILL NOT UNDERSTAND. BUT THEY'RE ALL 100% CANON WITH THE OVERALL SONG OF ICE AND FIRE CANON, NO DOUBT ABOUT THAT. REST EASY LITTLE ONE.

FUCK OFF.

BYE.


	2. Chapter 2 - Villainy Is Afoot

HELLO AGAIN, FRIEND OF A FRIEND

WE COME AGAIN TO BRING YOU GIFTS AND GLORIES

AND HAVEN'T WE GOT A GOOD GIFT FOR YOU THIS WEEK

BECAUSE IT'S WHISKERS AND WHEELS CHAPTER 2! PERHAPS THE BEST GIFT OF THEM ALL!

BUT ENOUGH OF THAT - DID YOU GUYS SEE GAME OF THRONES? PRETTY SURPRISING, RIGHT?

LIKE IT WAS PRETTY EARLY ON IN THE SERIES FOR THEM TO REVEAL THAT IMPORTANT THING, RIGHT?

WHO WOULD HAVE EXPECTED TOMMEN TO GET SO ANGSTY AS EARLY AS HE DID?

IMAGINE IF SER POUNCE COULD SEE HIM NOW - NO DOUBT HE'D HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO THAT!

ANYWAY, ON WITH THE NARRATIVE

Chapter 2 - Villainy Is Afoot - Although It Is Not Just Limited To That Body Part

A week has passed since the magical resurrection at the benevolent paw of one Ser Pounce, and as a result of some unexpected circumbendibus adventuring, the two find themselves in a bit of a pickle! Heck, not just a bit of a pickle, but a whole jar of the little vinegary bastards! For you see, the two had, in a devious ploy, feigned love towards a fair-complexioned hoity-toity dairymaid, in order to swindle her out of her cream and other such dairy produce! Why do they need such dairy products, we hear you ask? Why, they'd only just received a messenger pelican from our dear friend the fisherman, who was requesting some cream in order to make the perfect CREAM HADDOCK DISH!

But what Ser Pounce and Doran didn't know was that pelicans are illegal in this unspecified land into which they have stumbled; we are not aware of why, though we can assume that it is down to some unorthodox countryside superstition, like how pelicans probably steal babies with their big mouths and steal them as their own. And so midway through Doran's pouring of cream into the beak of the pelican, he turned around to see an angry mob of pitchfork-wielding countryfolk, waving their farmyard equipment in a somewhat menacing fashion!

And that is how the two heroes found themselves in a fusty old prison cell, where the only company they had were each other and perhaps even some moss.

'Ser Pounce!' exclaimed Doran. 'You have forever been an inventor of good ideas, for this entire week in which I have known you!' Doran is, you see, a rather trusting fellow, perhaps explaining why he got stabbed and didn't see it coming, even though the stabber was so obviously evil and machiavellian and bitchy that just talking about her here makes me want to spit. 'Have you concocted a death-defying plan to help us escape from the confines of this cell?'

Ser Pounce sat quietly, deep in thought, his whiskers bristling with the effort. And suddenly, with a sudden stroke of genius, an idea hit him, like an intelligence thunderbolt. But with it, a look of sadness, of grief. 'Dear friend Doran, I have a plan! That rhyme was entirely unintentional, yet I shall take credit for it anyway!' He allowed himself a brief moment to pat himself on the back. Then back to seriousness. 'Doran, my plan… it will only get me out.' He forced the words out between blubbering sobs, tears streaming down his fuzzy face. Doran started crying too.

'B-but Doran! Never fear!' He hid his face from Doran in shame. 'I shall come back for you! I… I never leave a friend behind!' He couldn't bear to look at Doran's face. They both knew the unspoken meaning behind Ser Pounce's words, the sincerity of the statement and what such a sacrifice will mean for both of them.

Doran wiped away the tears. 'I have only known you a short time, but I am proud to call you my friend. You must do what you must do. I will be waiting.'

'As if you're going anywhere. You're in a cell and your legs don't work. But I appreciate the emotion you show.'

Ser Pounce began to make his daring escape, as he walked towards the jail bars, and, slippery as a little snakesman, he slipped through the bars. For you see, prison cells aren't made for cats.

Ser Pounce opened the door. 'See, Doran? I came back!'

The two laughed. Doran was like, 'But, Ser Pounce! Even though you have freed me from this cell, how can I escape? This building is not wheelchair accessible, and my feeble legs cannot possibly carry me much further than, oh I don't know, five or six feet? That is merely a rough approximation, because the writers are unsure if I am permanently disabled in my legs or if I just get a bit faint, and instead of actually just Googling it, they are instead writing a long fuck-off paragraph about it to make it funnier. Yet regardless of quibbles from pettifogging pernickety pricks, the fact is I'm kind of stuck here. What oh what will I do?' he wailed in anguish.

Ser Pounce snapped his fingers. 'Doran! Don't worry! You've had it in you all along!' Suddenly, Doran was wrenched upwards with a spritely bound, like the grandad in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 'Look at me! Look at me! Hopping about!' he exclaimed with glee. Another unintentional rhyme. For you see, we take inspiration from all the great writers, and that right there was our take on Edgar Allen Poe, who was often criticised for making his prose too poetic. But we say, good on you Edgar Allen Poe! It's 2016, why can't we just accept the works of Edgar Allen Poe! Why aren't people raving about 'The Raven', telling tales about 'The Tell-Tale Heart'?

But I digress. Doran is jumping around, whoosh crikey fun. And thus the two begin their daring escape, by which I mean, the two walk straight out the door. There's no-one around, because who would even expect anyone to escape from prison? I mean, come on, it's prison, it's supposed to keep people in. And most prisons don't take in cats, hence the reason they may not have anticipated such tomfoolery. But I guess they'll learn from this little mistake, and perhaps even build some cat-proof prisons, lest this little kitty comes back to town!

As the two near the exit of the prison, they stumble across - gasp! Doran's wheelchair! Whilst he needn't take the wheelchair, now that he has working legs (did he have them before? Who even knows.), you do not understand how expensive wheelchairs are in Westeros. Like if they were cheap, fuckin' everyone would have a wheelchair, because they're just kind of fun to have. Like you know in 'Misfits', where the young delinquents spend their time faffing about and cruising the corridors of the community centre in their wheelchairs? Yeah, it's like that, wheelchairs are bare fun. But no, wheelchairs are really expensive. Think back to your time watching Game of Thrones; did you ever see another wheelchair other than the one that Doran owns? No, you didn't. And if you think you did… well, we're not wrong, so it must be you who's wrong. For you see, Doran has the only wheelchair in Westeros, which is a good band name I think. So of course, he couldn't leave it behind.

But it's a good thing that Doran had only just sat down. For you see, HORROR HAD STRUCK! UNEXPECTED JELLY-BASED HORROR!

A vivid blue laser beam slammed into Doran's legs! From a freak direction! Completely unanticipated and overall unappreciated! The laser beam buzzed and zapped, perhaps making some other sci-fi noises as well (but that's up to the reader to decide), briefly illuminating Doran's legs with a dull blue light, before flashing with an x-ray flash to reveal that all the bones in Doran's legs had gone! No bones there! You may as well call him Dead Legs Doran! Which you may have been able to do before! Because his legs didn't work! Or maybe they did! Who even knows?!

'Fucker!' shouted Ser Pounce. He recognised this handiwork! He knew the evil hand that had committed such atrocities as this before! He left Doran to his newfound disappointment at having being given working legs and then having such a gift instantly swiped away from his feeble grasp, and marched outside as only a cat can do.

As he swung the prison doors open, standing outside were two figures; an alien, and a lizard. The alien was really fucking tall, and grey, as all aliens are, and in his hand he carried a smoking ray gun with all blinking lights and other such unnecessary gimcrack shit. This alien knew that he was futuristic, and he wanted everyone else to know it. Even though this seems unnecessary, since he's in like a fantasy world, and the extent of their technology is like sharp sticks. Although we did have like a steampunk mech in the last story we wrote, powered by bears and prostitutes, but that was a feasible creation that befitted the overall tone of the story. Laser guns are owned only by cunts.

The lizard, meanwhile, was quite a cool lizard. It sat atop a red cushion placed upon a small podium, and the lizard wore a rather ostentatious headdress, all pink feathers and gilded filigree. The lizard wasn't especially big - if anything, it was slightly substandard as lizards go - but what it lacked in size it made up for in fashion.

'PENU!' screamed Ser Pounce, fire in his belly and froth speckling his lips as he gets really fucking riled up at the sight of this adversary. And this is Ser Pounce we're talking about, the gentlest of souls, hard to make angry and harder to make horny. But that's unrelated. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, YOU INTERSTELLAR PENIS?!'

'~Aah, Ser Pounce!~' said the alien known as Penu, in a voice not dissimilar to a small child playing with an alien voice changer. Though there was no child-like innocence here - only a cunt with a laser gun. '~We have come to steal all of this world's LEAVES!~'

'BASTARD!' cried Ser Pounce. 'We need those to breathe and stuff! The oxidisation caused by trees is necessary for our survival as a species!' He looked to the right, at the lizard, and it's smug face. How could a lizard look smug? This one managed it. 'And… you? What are you-'

'It is I, Fernandez, royal emissary of the Great Bloodline Mexi-Go.' He spoke in a dolorous tone, like the chimes of a churchyard bell. 'The Mexi-Gonian empire has sent me in their stead, to seek revenge against you, Ser Pounce. Thrice aeons past, you entered our homeland under the false pretences of fixing our thermostat, and then proceeded to drink large quantities of the land's tequila, and get royally fucked up and generally make an ass of yourself. It was really embarrassing and made us all look bad. How dare you.'

'SLANDER!' Ser Pounce cried. 'Defamatory slander against my good name!' He downed a vodka and coke to prove his point. 'Alright, you dickheads! Which of you am I going to beat up first?!'

'~Fool! Neither of us can be beaten in battle today! Did you not see what we did to your dear friend?~' Penu gestured to where Doran was suffering a severe case of the morbs, totally bummed out at this sudden slightly shitty turn of events.

'That's why I want to beat you up! You took his legs, and now you plan to take our leaves! What else could you take from us? And you, you scaly cacafuego, you are nought but a slanderous shite!'

'Not true. You totally suck.' Then the two villains laughed and high-fived. 'There's nothing you can do to stop us!' The two begin to float upwards, caught in a UFO levitation beam that had suddenly appeared amidst all the commotion and arguing. 'All your worlds' leaves belong to us! And we shall use them for evil purposes!'

'~Oh, and one more thing! It says 'gullible' on the ceiling.' Ser Pounce looked up, curious as to how someone could have climbed so high up as to write 'gullible' on the - WAIT! He was outside! There is no ceiling out in that nebulous place! Oh, by their powers of pranking had he been outclassed! He hung his head in shame as the two bastards flew up into the spaceship laughing at their clever joke, before the UFO phased out of existence.

Ser Pounce didn't hang his head for long. He raised his fuzzy fist into the sky, shaking it in barely suppressed rage at these two villains! He knew fully well that the efforts of these two grumbletonians would threaten all the good in the world, the world that he so dearly loved, and the only way of remedying the strife and turmoil that they threaten to spread with their dickish behaviour is by granting them a quick dowse on the chops. He considered the logistics of punching a lizard. Would you pick up the lizard and punch it? Or would you just like smash your fist down onto the cushion on which it sits? How he wished that the prison was taller, so that he could climb up onto it and fly into their hovercraft and test out the two methods for effectiveness. But no matter; villains and their treachery leaves a trail, (in this case a trail of leaf-less trees), a trail that is easily picked up on by two radical heroes! But Ser Pounce, make sure to be careful, because you know what they say… curiosity killed the cat! Although Doran is not a cat, so I guess he could be curious if need be. I mean we haven't fleshed out his character yet, so 'curious' is one personality trait he could have. But also, watch out for laser guns, lads. That fucks up everyone, regardless of species.

THE END

NOTHING HAPPENED THIS CHAPTER

I GUESS THAT'S THE DOWNSIDE OF NOT PLANNING THIS IN THE SLIGHTEST

I MEAN I DID HAVE AN IDEA ABOUT AN OLD MAN WITH A LOAD OF SWANS

AND PERHAPS EVEN SOME REDHEAD BARMAIDS

BUT WE NEVER GOT ROUND TO USING THEM

WE HIT A SLUMP

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT SLUMPS

AFTER EVERY GOOD SLUMP, THERE'S A BETTER… SLIMP

REOHAIGUHWEAUI


	3. Chapter 3 - The Ballad of Jeremiah

HELLO MY PAL

HOW ARE YOU DOING

HMM, THAT'S PRETTY FLY

I'LL TELL YOU HOW I'M DOING: I'M WHEELIN' AND DEALIN' LIKE THE FANFIC OVERLORDS

SO WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT IT, IN THIS WEEK'S GAME OF EPISODE

I MEAN THAT WAS SOME TIME AGO, I DON'T REALLY REMEMBER

THE STARK SPROG RETURNED ONCE AGAIN, TO MY EVERLASTING DISMAY

MAISIE WAS… RELEVANT, I GUESS

AND SOME OTHER SHIT NO DOUBT HAPPENED, DEATH AND FUNNY FACES, THE USUAL

BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, IT'S TIME FOR US TO GET WITH THE WHEELING

Chapter 3 - The Ballad of Jeremiah

'Woah! What a nice pub!' said Doran, eyes filled with wonder.

'It's not just any old nice pub!' laughed Ser Pounce, slapping Doran across the back with playful admonishment. 'It's the Stinky Pig-Hand!'

'Ah, mint!' said Doran. And the bearded barman handed him a mint. The pub they had entered was a charming establishment; the lighting was pink and intimate, like the human brain, and leather armchairs were placed at dark wood tables. Men and women of all creeds sat and laughed, warmed themselves my the fire, and conspired against people in positions of power, as all lovely working-class men do.

Ser Pounce was drinking his regular milk and tequila, a drink he refers to as 'The Kitty Fiddler'. For you see, Ser Pounce does enjoy a drink now and again; in fact, some would go as far as to call him an alcoholic. But in a whimsical way, of course. And who could blame him? He is a busy cat with a busy life, not to mention the most ridiculously incompetent and over-coddled bastard of an owner since George Tesman from Ibsen's 'Hedda Gabler', some little prick of a sprog who is so ridiculously easily convinced to change his opinion that he can be coaxed into changing his opinion just by being made to sit down with some guy. And the guy wasn't even that fit, I mean let's be reasonable here. Like Jonathan Pryce isn't even the most attractive of old men; I'm not saying he's unattractive, but simply by being an old man, he is by definition not shaggable. Like if for some reason Tommen was being convinced by an attractive lass, like say his fucking wife, I'd be accepting of him being convinced so easily. But no, he's meant to be working on behalf of saving Natalie Dormer, and yet he instead is seduced by Jonathan Pryce. Like what the fuck man.

Also Doran is drinking an Um Bongo. This is a brief hiatus from the rest of the text, but can we just acknowledge the issue that Um Bongos aren't like readily available in England any more? Like this is complete sacrilege against what it is to be British; I shouldn't have to spend like fifteen quid on Amazon for like eight cartons of Um Bongo just so I can enjoy the tropical goodness. I shall say right now that I shall stand with whatever politician who states they will bring back Um Bongo.

The two men were enjoying their drinks in quiet contemplation, thinking about their next steps in defeating Penu and Fernandez. Penu, the alien from Mars, Ser Pounce thought to himself. Because you know what they say… men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, and Penu is an alien man… but surely Venus should be the birthplace of men, because it rhymes with penis? I mean of course, Venus was named after the Roman goddess of beauty and Mars after the Roman god of war, but surely that is a rather reductionist or even over-simplified view of the sexes? To associate men only with war and women only with beauty? Nay, what an archaic view that would be to uphold…

Ser Pounce's interesting hypothesis was interrupted by the slam of the pub door. In entered three men, and weren't they just the most villainous looking of souls ever put together in one mushy gallimaufry. Ser Pounce looked at them over his drink with intrigue.

The first man had about him an air of authority, and the appearance to match. He was dressed in chainmail, adorned with medals of honour upon his broad chest. His judgemental eyes surveyed the room, and his surprisingly long and spindly fingers twitched slightly, as if finger-picking an invisible string instrument, probably a banjo. He was accompanied by a hulking beast of a man, chunky overflowing fat seeping over his trouser belt, and a big moustache and combover. The last man, creeping around from the side, was a twitchy gimp in full gimp get-up, whose arms were as long as an average man's, and twitched sporadically, as is to be expected of a man described as 'twitchy'.

'Look, Ser Pounce. A gang of brigands!' whispered Doran conspiratorially. 'They look like some vainglorious men, and make no mistake.'

'Aye,' responded Ser Pounce. 'So vainglorious they probably piss more than they drink.' He thought to himself about a good plan of action in order to counteract these sapskulls and snafflers. He sat up on his stool and cupped his paws around his mouth, to make sure that they heard what he had to say. 'LOOK, IT'S A FAT PAEDOPHILE!' Perhaps Ser Pounce had drunk a wee bit too much! Oh, what a silly sod that Ser Pounce is! But we love him anyway.

The newcomers did not think this comment to be too complimentary. And thus, the collective who we shall now refer to as Forbidden Love and the Crazy Bunch sauntered over to the kitty cat who was oh so cruising for a bruising.

'Hey!' said Forbidden Love, the fat paedophile, in a slightly normal voice, perhaps like a normal man with a slight cold. Perhaps he contracted a disease due to him being all fat and clammy and generally unlikable. 'What are you doing calling me a fat paedophile?'

'Why, good sir, I am merely pointing out the obvious! Clearly you are a pantagruelian trencher-man, no stranger to the dessert trolley, and your overall appearance to me says 'I am a registered sex offender'!' He holds up his drink to Forbidden Love. 'Here I am, drinking a Kitty Fiddler, standing next to… a fat paedophile!'

'Wouldn't have it have been funnier if you'd have said you were standing next to a kiddy fiddler?' asked Doran, ever eager to improve a sick burn.

Ser Pounce looked at him, with an expression that said, 'oh my days, you think you're better than I am? You just sit down; oh wait, you already are, your legs don't work'. Doran did not understand the complexities of the facial expression, as that would have been a near impossible task. Like no other ordinary man could have portrayed such a sentence with one facial expression, but Ser Pounce is ever the incredible creature; his face could sail a thousand ships, and every conversation you have with him belies a million novels worth of hidden meaning portrayed via his own incredible facial expressions. But such matters have little bearing on this overall story.

Doran felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around to see a big burly barman, called Rhydian. (Fucking hate alliteration, it's the work of children; I'll nip that one in the bud by not giving him a name beginning with B. And whilst you may apparently be able to identify situations where we have previously used alliteration, or may use in the future, fuck off). Doran knew this, as Rhydian had introduced himself with a handshake and a gentle smile. Doran was put on edge though; no man could be this friendly and gregarious unless he had… a secret agenda. And lo and behold, Doran was right! For Rhydian was relaying a message:

'Listen, Doran. If your mate gets any more rowdy, we'll have to kick the both of you out. You understand?'

'I'm sorry, but my legs don't work,' responded Doran, gesturing to his flappy skin lumps that were once legs.

'Oh okay. You can stay.' Rhydian left Doran be. Doran turned back to the conflict at hand, but enthralled as he was with the dialogue exchange between himself and Rhydian, he had failed to notice how much the conflict had escalated!

The man with the long fingers had stepped in, attempting some conflict resolution, perhaps? 'Now lads, calm down! Clearly this is all some big understanding. We have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick, and I bring-'

CRACK! A priceless faberge egg smacked into the side of Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick's head, dealing perhaps serious damage to his cranium. (Don't worry, the whimsy is being retained with the use of the word 'perhaps'; it is equally possible that he is totally fine, or just has a booboo). He falls to the ground foaming at the mouth, perhaps in a bit of trouble!

'Woah! Who threw that there priceless faberge egg?' said one of the random people in the bar, a man with a beard and a puffy coat, who is not actually fat but on first glance may have appeared fat. He is not important to the story, stop worrying about him. But just in case you were wondering, his job is a postman. He wakes up at seven in the morning, and gets to work on his two-hour shift. He only gets a few shekels, but it's enough to get by for this man; just enough to pay for patchwork repairs on his coat, a couple of trips down the pub, and a big tasty waffle for his pet goldfish.

Interestingly, goldfish do not actually eat waffles, but herein lies an interesting tale of one goldfish who developed a peculiar taste! For you see, it was three long months ago, when Jeremiah, one plucky goldfish, found himself washed up in the sink of the Westerosi Waffle House! Not the greatest waffle house in the world, but it's sure in the running! And one gentle soul, a man named Harold just looking for that big break, found Jeremiah and gifted him with a lump of waffle, and this gift did not just satisfy Jeremiah's hunger, but his friendship. But I hear you ask… how did Jeremiah find his way from a waffle house to a fish bowl owned by a postman? Well—

FUCK OFF

Ser Pounce threw up on the floor. 'I threw that fucking faberge egg!' he screamed, vomit and sweetcorn dripping from his mouth. 'And that priceless faberge egg was one of two! And I shall use this other priceless faberge egg to take out at least one more of you gollumpuses!' He passed out before he could act on this threat. Doran spent the next fifteen minutes profusely apologising to everyone involved.

'Hey there,' said the gimp, his voice an orotund thunder that shook the room and chilled everyone to their bones. 'Did you know that Hellboy I is a very faithful adaptation of Mike Mignolia's artwork, yet Hellboy II is more associated with Del Toro's creature design? Really it's entirely down to audiences which one they prefer.'

'Oh no, don't say these things, Spoilers Gimp!' cried Forbidden Love. He then apologised to Doran, for spoiling Doran's would-be watching of the Hellboy films. This was hardly a spoiler, but Doran was not one to argue with technicalities. Except I think he did that last chapter. But fuck off.

After everyone had finished apologising to one another, they all trekked back to Doran's tavern rooms, and they all had lots of laughs and fun, except for Ser Pounce, who was still passed out. They eventually all went their separate ways on good terms as everyone returned to their separate rooms.

HOWEVER! This is where shit gets… interesting. For you see, late at night, Doran got thinking. What was Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick a lieutenant of? (We'll leave it up to the readers whether you believe that Pick-N-Lick overcame his injury and partied it up with Doran and the others, or if he's still just lying on the floor of the tavern with blood seeping out of his gaping head wound. We can assume Rhydian helped him out though, if that helps. Spin-off, anybody?) And why, pray tell, was Forbidden Love so hesitant to reveal the contents of his knapsack? Could he be… hiding something? Maybe some… leaves? Maybe this gang of miscreants who were established to be villains at the start of the chapter were not just throwaway characters, but were actually villains under the command of Penu and Fernandez, with Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick being the leader of them and a lieutenant loyal to Penu's cause? But instead of actually writing that, the story got completely derailed and the writers couldn't salvage it in any way to bring it back to the plot point that they had actually come up with prior to writing the chapter? Yes, instead of just going into it completely blind and writing it as we go, we conceived some ideas beforehand and still wrote it pretty much as we went. Shit. Looks like Ser Pounce and Doran aren't gonna be getting any closer to progressing the plot this chapter; don't worry, we're planning on starting next chapter with a dramatic fight scene against these dastardly villains to put shit on track again. Hopefully we will actually do this, and not just write some bullshit about a postman and his goldfish.

AIGHT THAT'LL DO

IT'S KIND OF SHIT BUT NOT AS SHIT AS 'THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION'

MORE LIKE THE SURE-WANK REDEMPTION, AM I RIGHT?

OF COURSE I'M JOKING, BECAUSE IT WOULD BE MORE LIKE THE POOR-WANK REDEMPTION

YES, ANDY DUFRAIN WAS IN PRISON BECAUSE OF A LACKLUSTRE WANK HE HAD, AND SOUGHT REDEMPTION

SEE YOU NEXT WEEK


	4. Chapter 4 - FuckTheChapterNameIsTooLong

EVENIN' SQUIRE

HOWSABOUT A LITTLE BIT O' THE OLD WHISKERS AND WHEELS, EH?

FUCKIN' SPENDID GUVNA!

SO THIS JUST IN: EMILIA CLARKE GOT HER TITS OUT YET AGAIN

AND THEY WERE JUST AS GOOD AS THEY ALWAYS WERE

IT WAS LIKE SEEING AN OLD FRIEND AGAIN, VERY MUCH APPRECIATED

ALSO THORN OF EMBERLAIN COMES OUT IN THREE AND A HALF MONTHS GET HYPED GET HYPED

IN FACT SHIT PREACHER COMES OUT IN A FEW DAYS GET HYPED GET HYPED

ALSO LET'S BEGIN

Chapter 4: It'd be nice to get him a half decent whiskey, but we'll just have to see what monies we can get together

It had been three days since Doran and Ser Pounce had been deceived by a fat paedophile and his accomplices, who were under the employ of those devious antagonists Penu and Fernandez. As we rejoin their story, Ser Pounce and Doran had painstakingly tracked these bastard villains into a pub car park. (In case you haven't guessed, we're pretty much abandoning this medieval setting in favour of writing whatever will be funnier. If it really matters that much to you, just kind of imagine it's like a mucky carriage park or something, who even cares). Ser Pounce and Doran were parked in a convenient bush, Ser Pounce peering over Doran's shoulder through the shrubbery. They were lying in wait, for the BASTARDS to show up. And lo and behold, they emerged through the pub's back door, staggering from the alcohol they just consumed. And in their hands - gasp! - they were holding bustling bags full of the world's leaves! This injustice will not stand!

'Hurry Doran, to glory!' said Ser Pounce. Doran nodded, conviction in his eyes, and began spinning his wheels frantically. His speed was facilitated further with the addition of two small hamster wheels he had engineered into the wheels, and the two hamsters ran oh so fast to increase the wheelchair's velocity. Of course they were slave-laboured like you wouldn't believe, long hours with low pay, but the money they were receiving was helping them pay their college fees. With great speed, they burst from the bush, clumps of shrubbery flying everywhere. The villains turned around, shock evident on their fat stupid faces, and thought about running, but their legs threatened to stumble out from underneath them! They were trapped!

Quick as a flash, Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick found his legs being knocked out from underneath him with the fury of a thousand suns and the general weight of like a big wheelchair. He fell to the floor, helpless, not even having time to scream before his face was crushed under the wheels in a fucking brutal fashion. In that moment, Ser Pounce had leapt into the air, and with one perfectly executed punch, spun around and smacked the fat paedophile right in his fat paedophile face. The fat paedophile shrugged off the hit, his blubber absorbing the blow like a chortling elephant seal. He wasn't so smug as to laugh in Ser Pounce's face, knowing that this was a worthy opponent indeed, requiring respect. Forbidden Love raised his own hammy fists and started raining down a meteor storm of pain on Ser Pounce; the wily protagonist ducked and dived, weaved like a zipping bumblebee around the powerful blows that would no doubt knock him down into the mud if he got hit by one of them. 'Doran, I require assistance!' shouted Ser Pounce, but Doran was experiencing difficulties attempting to reverse his wheelchair off of Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick's face, his wheels embedded in his face like a wafer biscuit smushed into a tasty ice cream. Perhaps the ice cream also has like a chocolate flake on it, or maybe some sprinkles or something. It's not important what flavour the ice cream is. It's strawberry, going by the sheer amount of gratuitous gore of Lieutenant Pick-N-Lick's mushy face. Yeah, strawberry.

Ser Pounce, knowing fully well that he could not draw his infamous sword 'The Whisker' in this fight, as this is an honourable pub car park fight, the combatants utilising nothing but fisticuffs and their wits. Fortunately, he was a very witty animal. Many people often said so; he provided insightful satirical commentary about the state of Westeros, talking about how religion is the opium of the people and other such stuff. For he too had also had that discussion with the High Sparrow, when the High Sparrow comes in and regales his stories of shoe-making and then having sex with a lot of people, and then not making shoes, and then becoming shoes, and then never wearing shoes again. For you see, the High Sparrow had uncovered that people are more likely to worship another because of his belief in God, and not his belief in shoes. Ser Pounce took this information to heart, and he made clever witticisms about it to his peers, who laughed heartily at his insight and intelligence. Like sometimes he'd go up to his mate and say, 'High Sparrow? With his lack of shoes, he's more like a Low Sparrow! Perhaps he ought to invest in some high heels so he can live up to his literally lofty title!' (Perhaps we misunderstood Jonathan Price's anecdote in this week's episode, but we needed to write our tenuous link to the source material).

With his previously established wits, he looked around him for a tactical advantage. He found it in the form of a bunch of bananas, carefully placed on a nearby table by a monkey who was eating at this establishment. With a silent apology to the monkey from whom he was stealing from, Ser Pounce snatched the banana bunch from the table, and began eating away at the bananas voraciously. With frantic speed he gnawed away at the bananas, feeling their potassium goodness warm his soul. Forbidden Love did not understand Ser Pounce's tactical genius; he only saw a little cat to be punched! But what he didn't know was that cats… are pretty good at eating bananas.

Before you could say, 'if I were to feed my cat a banana, would I have to take it to the vet afterwards?', Ser Pounce had ate the shit out of all those bananas, and in his little paws he held the keys to his salvation; a load of banana peels. And with quick succession he chucked those banana peels on the floor in front of Forbidden Love as he began another evil war stomp. But because Forbidden Love is like fat and terrible, he could not see past his belly on the floor, and thus did not see the slippery hazards right in his path! Gravity did the rest of the work, as he flopped on his back like a fucking retarded fish who jumped out of water like a fool. And with a swift punch to the collarbone (the right one), Forbidden Love was down for the count. And then Ser Pounce did a back flip off of Forbidden Love's bloated belly, landed on two legs, and shouted out, hands raised above his head, 'THE EVIL HAS BEEN PURR-GED!' Many passing pedestrians and wild animals applauded this well-executed line.

Spoilers Gimp bailed out though. But not before saying, 'Fans of David Carradine, do not get too excited when you see his presence in the cast list for 'Death Race'. He is only in the film for the first five minutes in a voice-over role.'

To which Doran, shaking off the horrible feeling of dread that had come over him after hearing Spoilers Gimp's voice, said, 'Hey, no, that's not correct. 'Death Race 2020' was one of my favourite films, and I distinctly remember David Carradine's presence in that!' To which Spoilers Gimp paused in thought for a second.

'No, wait. I mean the 2008 film, with Jason Statham.'

'Oh,' said Doran. 'Well that sucks.'

Spoilers Gimp offered no retort; he was already gone. The leaves were safe… for now.

ANYWAY, TIME WENT ON.

We now find our heroes in HMV. Ser Pounce had heard a song in passing that he'd never heard before, and he'd gone to HMV in an attempt to track it down, for he had heard that HMV was the source of all sounds in the Seven Kingdoms. So whilst Doran was looking at the album 'In The Aeroplane Over the Sea' by Neutral Milk Hotel, Ser Pounce had sought out a sales assistant, as the sheer number of CDs and vinyls here was rather daunting. He tap-tapped a passing sales assistant on the arm, reading to ask for a hand. But he realised - this sales assistant had no arms! And therefore, he could not offer a hand, as he had no hands! But don't worry - the sales assistant turned around revealing that he did indeed have arms, he was just hiding them in his jumper! Oh what a palaver! Or should I say, what a pullover! Which was the jumper he was wearing! Hahahaha. The sales assistant said, 'Sorry, I was hiding my arms for a second, seeing if I can do my job without arms. Can I help you with anything?'

Now Ser Pounce had never visited a musical establishment; indeed, the only music he listened to was that scientifically created 'music for cats' that Tommen played for him, but all that did was give him a rather empty feeling inside. Didn't satisfy his sought-after passion for the sick jams. And so Ser Pounce was not sure how such a shop worked. All he could do was say, 'Here there Guardian of the Tunes, can I like describe a song to you, and then you can tell me what it is?'

The sales assistant furrowed his brow, but he didn't get to this position of being able to fuck about at work consequence-free by backing down from an occasional challenge. 'I'll do my best,' he said confidently.

'Okay,' stared Ser Pounce. 'So it starts with like thirty-two seconds of like rain noises, and then this sick guitar comes in, right. Maybe a little too heavy for my cat ears, but you know, I'm not complaining. And then the lyrics kick in, and I'm not exactly sure what they are, but it's something like, 'Trapped in purgatory, a lifeless object, alive, awaiting reprisal, death will be their acquittance.' Something like that, anyway.'

The Guardian of the Tunes rubbed his chin in thought. 'Sounds like you're looking for something pretty damn edgy. Tell me, did you get a desire to seek out OCCULT RITUALS when listening to these sick jams?'

'Hmm. No, not really. Drawing such correlations between a music genre and actual real-world atrocities would be folly.'

'Well then, perhaps I can't help you. For you see, I only dabble in such archaic thinking.' And with that he was gone.

Ser Pounce thought all hope to be lost. However, all good things come to those who wait… around in HMV in the metal section. For you see, he heard a husky whisper, saying 'Here, listen here. I think I can help you out here, cat dude.'

Ser Pounce turned around. 'Really now?'

'Yeah, cat dude. I think it's the song 'Raining Blood' by Slayer.'

'Well how could you know that? You aren't Music Guardians!'

'No… but we are Music!' Ser Pounce turned around in shock, and saw - woah! - four quite old-year old men, who made up the entirety of Slayer! Of course Ser Pounce didn't know that, but he did when they said 'We are the entirety of Slayer, and we wrote that there song, 'Raining Blood'!' They smelt of edginess and Satan.

'Oh, cool,' said Ser Pounce. 'Just wondering, because I heard it, and it sounded pretty good, and I wanted to hear it again.'

'Don't worry, cat dude,' said the entirety of Slayer. 'We'll perform it for you, right now!' And so they did. It was pretty good, but clearing away all the stuff in HMV and putting up an entire small stage. As they ended their song, the entirety of Slayer shouted, 'Thank you, all our fans! We will finish this here sick song, written by us, by saying, fuck you whoever's taking all the leaves from all our trees! We need them to keep the landscape verdant and aesthetically pleasing!'

Ser Pounce was all like 'Yo! We know who's taking all the leaves! And they're total dicks!'

The entirety of Slayer began to rage. 'This injustice will not stand! Tell us who we must face, and we shall annihilate them!'

'His name is Penu, and he is an alien. He also has a lizard with him, but the lizard isn't very threatening.'

'Oh no cat dude, not an alien! I guess it's a good thing we still have our Slayer Spaceship still around!'

'Gee, Slayer, are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

'I think we are!'

Doran entered the fray, having overheard what everyone was thinking. 'A journey into space, to settle things with the alien on his own turf!'

'FUCKING YES!' shouted everyone, who all celebrated with friendship high-fives and little air guitar movements. Behind the stage where Slayer had just performed, a big-ass spaceship in red and black materialised, a radical spaceship powered entirely with guitar riffs. And so whilst it seems a bit of an inconvenience that they have to play 'Raining Blood' over and over again, perfectly every time, in order to power their spaceship, it's still pretty cool to have. And you know what, Slayer are pretty humble about it. Like there's so much bullshit on Metal Hammer about Iron Maiden's stupid little plane; Slayer never once bought up their Slayer Spaceship? Then again, why would they ever bring it up on Earth, when they can be up in space performing sick guitar riffs to the tralfamadorians?!

So the entirety of Slayer ran into their spaceship, guitars in hand, ready to play some sick shredding riffs dude! Doran pressed a little button on his wheelchair, and the wheels transformed into little jets! The little hamsters would be working their fuzzy butts off today! Ser Pounce, meanwhile, got into his little cat sized biplane, complete with a little cat face on the nose. He put on his flight goggles and got ready for take-off! Doran put on his space helmet, because he would die out in space. Ser Pounce did not need a space helmet; we've never sent a cat out into space before, so for all we know a cat could be fine out there, and therefore wouldn't need a space helmet. Plus he's got his goggles on, so he's not entirely defenceless. And of course, he is no ordinary cat!

'Are you ready for take-off?' asked Ser Pounce to his comrades.

'Aye aye, Ser Pounce!' cried Doran, excited for adventure.

'Rock on, cat dude!' said the entirety of Slayer.

'Alright then! Let's go!' And so, Ser Pounce, Doran and the entirely of Slayer took off into the darkest depths of space! But remember friends, in space, no one can hear you shred!

SO THAT'S IT THEN

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR THE CLIMACTIC SHOWDOWN BETWEEN THE GOOD GUYS AND THE BASTARDS

BUT WAIT, I HEAR YOU SAY (OR SHOULD THAT BE, I HEAR YOU 'SLAY'), ISN'T IT TOO EARLY FOR SUCH AN EVENT?

HELL YEAH IT IS, BUT DON'T WORRY, WE'VE GOT A PLAN FOR THIS

DON'T EXPECT ANYTHING REVOLUTIONARY THOUGH

OK

KEEP ROCKIN', SLAYER FANS


	5. Chapter 5 - Statham in Spacem

HI THERE

HOW'S TRICKS LIL' BROTHER

DID YOU SEE THAT THERE GAME WITH THE CHAIRS

HOLD THE DOOR? MORE LIKE HOLD THE TEAR DUCTS

MIGHT AS WELL CALL THIS 'WHIMPERS AND WOES' BECAUSE WE'RE TOO BUSY BEING MOROSE AND PESSIMISTIC TO WRITE PROPERLY

LIKE MY KEYBOARD IS STAINED WITH TEARS

BUT WAIT, THINK ABOUT IT AGAIN

BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS TOO PREOCCUPIED THINKING ABOUT THAT TO RECOGNISE THAT SANSA STARK (CONSUMER OF THE LEMON CAKE) IS NOW AN ACTUAL CHARACTER AFTER SHE TOTALLY CALLED LITTLEFINGER A CUNT

MORE LIKE LITTLE WILLY

ANYWAY, LET'S TRAVEL INTO SPACE, SPACE BUDDIES

Chapter 5 - Statham in Spacem

Space. There's stars everywhere. And in the distance, three spaceships flying through the deepest darknesses of the universe. These spaceships are, to remind you dear readers, our beloved protagonists; the entirety of Slayer, completely ignoring the rule that there is no sound in space with the power of their sick tunes, Prince Doran, who was whizzing through the sky like a speeding wheelchair, and everyone's favourite Ser Pounce, who had a song in his heart (which is 'You've Got Another Thing Coming' by Judas Priest, which is pretty applicable in this situation, on account of his pursuit of vengeance), and whiskers on his face.

They were speeding along through the space, laughing and having fun, but there were going so fast that they didn't realise that they were breaking the space speed limits! And of course, the law enforcement in space have fuck all going on for them, because there aren't too many people in space, and thus they are obligated to pick up on every minor discrepancy that could potentially be construed as a crime, solely to exert some petty authority and give a semblance of meaning to their otherwise pointless space lives.

Alongside them, in a small space bike lit up with blue and red sirens, was a little mauve alien man, with many hats yet only one head. His name was Glorm, and he was aching for a breaking. He pulled up alongside them, and started garbling incomprehensibly. The protagonists were none to impressed by this alien intruder!

'Oi, you interstellar anus!' shouted Ser Pounce from atop his now stationary biplane. 'We don't understand your confusing babbling, you damn grumbletonian!'

'I'll have you know I speak the common tongue!' whined Glorm, in the nasally tones of a downtrodden underclass.

'Get lost, gundiguts!' shouted Ser Pounce, none too impressed by this man's audacity.

'Yeah, fuck off you pig!' shouted the entirety of Slayer, and they played a riff so mighty that Glorm, with a final space scream, disintegrated into golden space dust. Ser Pounce immediately took this opportunity to blow upon the space dust, which when subjected to the mighty breath of the Chosen Kitty Cat, formed a convenient space dust map of the universe, with a convenient glowing red dot to indicate the locations of those BASTARD VILLAINS!

'Should we go and throw shit in his garden?' asked Doran.

'Perhaps on the way back. Right now, we've got to go kick the shit out of these space-dwelling grandstanders!'

And so with a mighty shredding solo, they flew off at hyper speed until they encountered a stationary UFO, with bright yellow flashing lights. It had some stylish graffiti on the side saying 'Penu and Fernandez Woz Ere 298AC', so they knew it was legit. They all drew to a stop outside the spaceship, hearing the TERRIBLE disco tunes these bastards were playing. Do they not know that the only good music is the serenading euphonious sounds of four old men screaming about demise?

Well, I say that ALL of them stopped. Doran, on the other hand, was suffering from a slight problem! For you see, his wheelchair was powered by the little scampering of his hired hamsters, yes? Well, they had been ordered to keep on running, no matter, what, and because because Doran had like a heavy space helmet on that muffled his voice and the only other sounds that could be heard was DREADFUL disco and RADICAL metal, the hamsters did not stop! And if there's one thing we know about hamsters (and trust us, we know very little about hamsters, so this one fact is especially important), it's that hamsters are the most persistent of all rodents around that size, and when their endless source of power is harnessed, they are tenacious and unstoppable! And so, whilst the others drew to a silent and totally cool halt outside the villain's ship and prepared to blast it with fiery vengeance from their space cannons, Doran instead went flying full-speed into the side of the spaceship, crashing through the metal wall as though it were naught but a flimsy rain-sodden child benefits form, neglected by my father! Dad, come back! You can't be a rockstar forever, you need to come home! Me and the cat miss you! Please feed me!

Doran's wheelchair smacked off Penu's head, and then ricocheted into a hall, embedding his wheelchair into a metal wall but launching Doran back out into space through the hole he'd made! For a second he thought he'd gotten away with it, and that Penu may just have assumed it was one of those nefarious space wheelchairs everyone is warned about, but Penu was not so easily fooled! He saw that Doran had his name and address printed on the wheelchair! Also he looked out the broken wall and saw like all of them sitting their awkwardly, hardly inconspicuous when they're blasting metal music really loudly and stuff. Quickly, Penu reached for his laser pistol in its holster, but - gasp! - he'd left it on a nearby space table when he was partying! Shock and horror! Quick as a space car, he zipped to the side, grasping for his pistol on a nearby table. Meanwhile, Fernandez had vomited a burrito onto his cushion. Because with this hall that had been blasted into the wall, the space was leaking into the cabin, and lizards can't survive in space. Well known space facts here, come and get 'em whilst they're hot.

Penu had got his laser gun, and was firing frantically. '~Quick, Fernandez! Get the leaves out of here!~' Fernandez offered no response, as he was dying in space. Penu's lasers were ineffectual, as they only managed to hit Doran's legs, to which Doran offered a hearty laugh. 'Haha, you damn… alien fuckhead!' Doran lacked Ser Pounce's eloquence, and by that we mean Ser Pounce's occasional tendency to misappropriate 18th century vulgar slang. 'Now you will taste true fury, for I am the man with the lightning hand!'

Doran lifted his hand, from which a blast of vivid blue lightning shot forth and zapped Penu right in his fat cranium. The alien yelped, and fell down as he shook off the brain spasms.

'Ah, that was pretty cool Doran!' said Ser Pounce. 'Did you come up with that all by yourself?'

'Nah, I stole it from a Kansas song,' replied Doran, who was trying to shake the static shock out of his frazzled hand.

'Oh, that's a bit shit.' Perhaps Ser Pounce would have said more, but he was interrupted by the sight of a dead lizard drifting through space past him. He stopped briefly to punch the lizard with a mighty fist, but Ser Pounce should have watched where he was aiming that projectile! The dead lizard slowly drifted past Doran, and into the Slayer Spaceship, where it CRASHED WITH SUCH FORCE that it set off a stream of explosions across the ship's hull, causing alarms to start blaring and the ship's engines to start malfunctioning! With a faltering guitar riff, the ship fell out of the sky and into a nearby sun. Ser Pounce and Doran then watched four middle-aged men and a lizard burn alive in horrible agony. They consoled themselves with the statement, 'Nah it's cool.' From the ashes of this fiery cremation, a bald little baby called Jason Statham was born, the prophesied hero of the ages, who, like a fiery super comet, flew away in a shocking blast to a faraway planet, where he would become a living legend and battle like gangsters and even Jet Li and a megalodon (though not at the same time). But that's a story for another time.

Our two still alive heroes turned their attention back to Penu, who was standing there with a shaking hand, laser gun hanging limp from his horribly twisted fingers (cool band name that is). Penu spat in anger. '~You may think you've won this battle, but trust me! We are one of many! Just another link in this big criminal chain! And you don't want to know who'll come and fuck with your shit after this! You can't even imagine the horror of seeing what he'll do to your precious world!~'

Ser Pounce, fly as ever, said, 'It's true what they say… no peace for the aliens.' And then he shot Penu five times with his trusty Desert Eagle, which he called 'I am more than just a gun, I am an Iams gun'. Bit of a long title, but who are we to question his graciousness' decisions?

Doran and Ser Pounce high-fived, content that they had sorted out everything. There was nothing else to do, no more loose-ends to be tied, no more DEVIOUS DASTARDLY ANTAGONISTS WAITING AROUND THE CORNER READY TO WRECK HAVOC UPON THE WORLD. Nah, nothing like that. So then they went home, travelling on the back of a whimsical luck dragon, because in the words of Michael Ende, 'Falkor was not a fighter, he was a lover'. And what better mount for such lovable characters as these than a lovable luck dragon? Eh? Eh?

And then they went home and had a lovely cream salmon, courtesy of the great fisherman. Good on you, fisherman!

But as they sat there, and they had their great food, they heard a knock-knock at the door! Who could it be? Ser Pounce sauntered on over and opened the door, ready to offer his food to a new friend- HOLY SHIT, IS THAT A VILLAIN?! Why yes it is! It was a big eight-foot tall fat man, in a big suit, and sunglasses, and a smile with golden teeth! And he said, voice orotund and powerful, 'Surprise, it's an ox-bow lake!' And the gang, all of a sudden, were in an ox-bow lake. Oh shit! They knew they were in an ox-bow lake without a paddle! And this NEW DESPICABLE VILLAIN, TEN TIMES MORE POWERFUL THAN THE LAST ONE, AND WITH A DEVILISH SMILE, AND 64 TIMES MORE EVIL THAN AT LEAST 3 HITLERS, stood there and laughed in their faces! For he was Mr Geography, the best villain ever. Watch out lads!

OK THAT'S THE END

WOAH, WHAT A BELTER

COULD YOU BELIEVE THAT SLAYER ARE DEAD?

RIP SLAYER

BUT HEY, DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS THE LAST WE'LL SEE OF FERNANDEZ?

YEAH, PROBABLY, HE DIED IN THE SUN

BUT THE MEXICANS DO HAVE A DAY OF THE DEAD

BUT HE DID GET LIKE BURNT TO A CRISP, AND THAT'S A BIT GRISLY AND MACABRE AND KIND OF INCONGRUOUS WITH THE USUAL STYLISTIC AESTHETIC OF DAY OF THE DEAD CELEBRATIONS

BUT ANYWAY, SEE YOU ON THE SIDE, MY LITTLE LISTENERS

AND WATCH OUT FOR GEOGRAPHY


	6. Chapter 6 - Gratuitous Frog Death

AY OOP LAPS

SORRY FOR THE WEEK AND A DAY DELAY, WE WERE ATTEMPTING TO GET IN CONTACT WITH BRUCE LEE'S FAMILY SO WE COULD FIND THE ORIGINAL CUT OF 'CHOCOLATE' WITH THE BRUCE LEE FIGHT SCENE HOMAGE

BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY

SO ANYWAY, DID YOU ALL WATCH… PREACHER THIS WEEK?

WOW, IT WAS PRETTY DAMN GOOD

I WOULD HAPPILY MARRY JOE GILGUN

FUCK I'D MARRY ANY OF THE CAST

ESPECIALLY ARSEFACE

OH AND I GUESS GAME OF THRONES WAS ALRIGHT; WE'VE GOT TWO WEEKS WORTH OF EPISODES TO TALK ABOUT HERE, BUT I DON'T WANT TO

I MEAN WE USED UP OUR ALLOTTED SHOUTING TIME TALKING ABOUT PREACHER

THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THAT ONE IRISH GEEZER WHO SUBSCRIBED TO US

CANT BE BOTHERED TO GO AND FIND OUT WHAT YOUR NAME IS, BUT NO WORRIES, WE'LL NAME A FROG AFTER YOU AT SOME POINT

ALRIGHLESGO

Chapter 6 - Gratuitous Frog Death (otherwise known as 'Fuck, We Dropped the Whimsy')

So you may remember the cliffhanger that happened last chapter, or at least I'd hope you'd remember. Because what, are you starting this story on the sixth chapter? How very counterintuitive! That's not how you read a book! I mean, imagine if you'd have started Robinson Crusoe on chapter 6? The opening lines of the book would have been, 'A little after this, my ink began to fail me'. A little after what? You wouldn't even know! What a palaver.

Well, as you audiences fully well know, this story is fully chronologically correct, and so obviously a full fortnight has passed since the last chapter. And so obviously the gang got out of the ox-bow lake, because it's like a lake, it's not very threatening. It's not even like a lake with notably turbulent waters or dangerous currents. It's quite a serene lake as lakes go. And I mean yeah, Ser Pounce is a cat and Doran has no legs, but they got out nonetheless, because there were no real obstacles stopping them from doing so. And as they emerged, soaking wet and bristling with poorly concealed rage at this newly arrived bastard, Mr Geography had fucking disappeared! I mean not like POOF disappeared, that would be ridiculous. He's not like a fucking warlock, he just knows a lot about geography and sometimes convinces geography to take place. You must be gentle with geography, like moose meat or Swedish lady.

So anyway they get out of that damn ox-bow lake, which if I remember correctly is right slap-bang in the middle of the Water Gardens in Dorne, so that's hilarious. Too much fucking water here, lads! Watch the fuck out! So now Dorne is like flooded, this desert city of harlots and whatnot is now totally like covered in water. Perhaps as icing on the cake those Spanish bitches what tried and failed to kill everyone's favourite cripple drowned, therefore giving Doran the vengeance he so eagerly sought after. I mean actually I thought he was pretty chill about everything, playing straight man to Ser Pounce's kooky antics, but now that he knows that he has been avenged I guess he may as well accept it. So yeah, if they reappear in Game of Thrones, I guess they didn't actually drown. Or maybe someone just resurrected him. Like Per Sounce, Ser Pounce's evil counterpart. Or maybe Mr Geography used the rejuvenating powers of Buxton water to fix them up nice and proper like. But fuck it, it's not important at the moment. We have better things to talk about. Like the plot.

So anyway, on with the actual story. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly had received a mole message from a man who had a spot of trouble. The man had agreed to meet them on the banks of a pond, and when they did, they spotted a familiar face. It was Jorah the Andal! But wait, he was a wee bit different! And by a wee bit, we mean, wee-ly different! Jokes. He sat cross-legged on a large lilypad in the middle of the lake. His trousers were blue and baggy, and he was completely shirtless, save for an abundance of tawdry gimcrack necklaces, all adorned with crystals and feathers and other spiritualist shit. In one hand he held a sword of no importance, and his other hand was a frog hand. Fuck, his entire arm was that of a bloated grey frog! It glistened and bubbled in the rising sun. His face was entirely stoic; he showed no emotion, no fear, but he did look pretty fly because of his cool guy sunglasses. Presumably worn because of the rising sun. Looking cool and spiritual is one thing, but practicality is way more important.

'Hail, friend!' cried Doran, waving energetically. Jorah looked up from his meditating, and with one swift frog bound, leapt from the centre of the lake onto the shore on which the lads were standing on.

'Greetings, friends,' said Jorah, his voice gravelly and worn-down. 'I hear that you are offering your services to those in need.'

'Jorah the Andal, why do you need our help!' asked Ser Pounce. 'Are you not a Westerosi knight, strong and mighty and capable of defeating even the toughest of foes and overcoming the most horrible fucking obstacles?!'

'No,' said Jorah. His tone of voice implied that nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

'But Jorah the Andal! I notice that you appear to have some sort of slightly pulsating amphibian arm! What's up with that?'

Jorah the Andal looked up at the sky. (We're gonna keep on calling him 'Jorah the Andal' because we need to get a handle on the Andal). 'Some time ago, I was afflicted by… a terrible curse. It is known in some circles as… 'frog arm'. I was touched by a fetid abomination, crawled from the innermost mires of hell, known as… a frog. Now I am cursed. My arm will soon transform into… a frog. It will leave me, to do… frog-like things. Like raping and pillaging, etc. There is… no cure.'

'Oh shit,' said Doran, clear of the evident importance of the issue due to the ubiquitous dramatic pauses. 'We ought to do something. But what can we do?'

'There is no cure for me,' grumbled Jorah. 'But, I have found a new calling in the short time I have left. I must return to my Khaleesi, go to her aid, but I cannot rest easy knowing that her claim on the Iron Throne is at risk when there are frogs in her kingdom. And so, I must take up the mantle of a Daycroaker, and with my last remaining days, I must destroy every frog in the kingdom.'

'Mate, that sounds like a hell of an undertaking,' commented Ser Pounce, renowned for his wisdom in times such as these. 'But how can we help you on such a massive and important task? We obviously will help any person in need, but what you are planning on doing concerns the fate of the world! And we are merely a cat and a cripple!'

'You are renowned as the best in your line of work. Your whimsy and endearing qualities… know no bounds. I do not ask for you to follow me all around the country. I ask you to help me know. I have discovered… the mother load. The head honcho of all the frogs. I know where we can find him. I know where I must go. I ask you… to follow me, and help me dispose of a threat most foul upon this earth.'

The lads looked at each other, and nodded. This was a quest in which their expertise could be applied. 'We'll do it. Tell me who we must destroy in the name of good.'

'His name… is Damir Redholt, the Frog King.'

'Is that his real name? It doesn't sound too frog-like.'

'How should I know?' spat Jorah angrily. 'What, you think that just because I share their repulsive arm, I understand and am enamoured by their fetid amphibian babbling and slimy sickening dialect?!' He spat out of sheer disgust at the thought. 'Intel from fellow Daycroakers on the inside tells us that is who we are up against. Here, have my card.' He handed Ser Pounce his business card, which depicted a frowning looking caricature of Jorah the Andal with contact details and the slogan, 'It's not murder if it's frogs; it's justice'. Ser Pounce was impressed with how professional the card looked, and made an internal promise to hire them in future if he ever had any frog-based problems.

'So how do we find this villain?' asked Doran, all too aware of how his wheelchair may be a hinderance in an underwater environment. The hamsters would drown, you see. (Please forget how they were totally fine in space).

Jorah wordlessly handed Doran two tiny breathing masks for his hamsters. 'We must jump straight into the frog's den. Down into the nebulous depths of this tiny pond.' He gestured to the pond in question.

'And what happens after that?' asked Ser Pounce.

'You must trust me.' Jorah looked at them coldly with a blank expressionless stare. He would have winked at them, but his eyes had long since forgotten how to express any emotion other than pain. And with that, he fell sideways into the pond. The lads, shrugging amongst themselves, followed suit.

The gang tumbled into the cold oppressive depths of this tiny pond. They held their breath, cheeks puffed out with air, and watched as Jorah began slowly swimming down towards a tiny light at the end of the pond. The gang looked down in horror as they saw that this light was actually shining from the gullet of what appeared to be - gasp! - a humungous, and I mean fucking humungous frog, mouth wide open like a huge doorway into another dimension. The boundaries between the frog and the waters blended seamlessly together; sometimes the frog appeared corporeal and real, other times it seemed like an illusion, a trick of the light, an illusion caused from a shape trapped between the boundaries of two competing dimensions. They see the walls of its mouth shake and shiver in a bellowing scream of endless despair, which fell on deaf ears (because there is no sound underwater) as the gang drifted helplessly into the croaky abyss, towards the grim effulgence emanating from this froggy throat.

One second everything was blinded by light, and the next the gang found themselves falling, falling, but not too far. Before they could say 'astral frog of despair,' the gang had smacked down on some horrible seating with a resounding thud. They looked around, temporarily blinded by the dazzling lights emanating from shaking lamps, and quickly concluded that they had fallen in what appeared to be a tacky and poor quality 50s diner, all sticky tablecloths and weird looking ketchup bottles. But before the gang could figure out what the fuck, or maybe even order a cappuccino, they realised that they had been thrown right into the fray, as all around them were big gushings and explosions of red, and they reckoned that it wasn't ketchup! For you see, Ser Pounce really damn loves ketchup, and he wasn't one to let go an opportunity for a taste test of his second favourite condiment. But he was disgusted to find that this was not ketchup at all! It was frog's blood! (Ser Pounce is a culinary artist, he knows the taste of literally everything). I mean he probably could have figured this out easier by simply looking up and witnessing Jorah going completely apeshit, bringing his sword down in brutal swings into the squishy faces of a shit load of frogs. But oh, these were not ordinary frogs. They were all five foot tall, and coloured purple and pink and other such hideously gaudy colours, and some were even decked out with mohicans and heelies. They ran at Jorah with baseball bats and flip knives and specialised gauntlets decorated with stylised frog-aesthetic filigree, shouting out, 'HEY, LOOK AT THAT! IT'S A HUMAN! IT'S A BLOODY HUMAN! WOZZEE DOIN' ERE?' Their voices were nasally, and kind of like common, I guess. The voice probably wouldn't get on your nerves in ordinary circumstances, but when shouted from about twenty different sources and interjected with the occasional furious croaking, it was enough to drive Jorah into a murderous frenzy. Ser Pounce and Doran watched with amazement as Jorah grabbed a frog by the abdomen with his super disgusting frog arm, and with a powerful tug ripped open its squishy stomach, like a biology experiment. I've never actually dissected a frog to be honest. Because we're English, and so we're not like barbaric arseholes. Like we don't need to cut upon a frog to know how evolution works, we're perfectly fine just being told that. Like to be honest, the questionable shit that happened in science lessons, setting fire to textbooks and pencils and whatnot, was down to teenage rebellion and a complete disrespect for teacher authority; it was not a part of the damn fucking curriculum. But I digress. Onwards with the radical shit.

Jorah began frantically tugging the frog's intestines out, pulling them out loop by loop, and threw a section over a blade of the electric fan like a lasso. He then kicked the damaged frog outwards until it reached the end of the intestine tether, at which point it began to get pulled along the electric fan's path, flying around in a circle like a fucking flail, bludgeoning any frogs who attempted to get within close proximity to Jorah.

The frogs, wary of this hazard of their fallen comrade smashing into them, and began to run away. Jorah shish-kebabed the ceiling fan frog on the end of his sword, and began to start smacking its face in fury. 'Quickly, comrades! You must follow the escapees! They will lead us to the Frog King!'

Doran looked at Ser Pounce. 'Do you think this is ethical? I mean, that was rather barbaric, wasn't it?'

Ser Pounce and Charlie thought for a minute. 'Nah. It was gratuitous, but that means it's pretty damn cool. I mean we can get to doing some whimsy later on, no worries. Maybe we'll kill this main frog antagonist using whimsical means, that'd fit our whole modus operandi. Besides, these geezers are bad guys, so it's totally justified if we give them a quick slap on the knuckles and send them on their way.'

'It's just, we're not just slapping them on the knuckles, are we? This is brutal massacre of frogs. I mean shit, Jorah didn't even give us any evidence that frogs are evil, did he?'

'Hey now, I'll have you know that frogs are pretty damn dastardly. Now shut up, you're killing the vibe. Let's go beat up an evil frog tyrant.'

And so the lads ran, leaving Jorah to pummel at the frog he had ensnared. As they left the cafe, they saw the street around him was alive with angry frog activity. They didn't seem too fond of this unwanted arrival, that was certain! Approaching them was a bouncing group of aggravated frog greasers, their black frog hair slicked back. These frogs were a remnant of a bygone era, and for that they must be stopped.

Ser Pounce pulled out his Desert Eagle, unloading an entire cartridge into the crowd, killing at least five frogs with brutal head exploding death and probably injuring two. Doran began throwing his hamsters at the onslaught, but forgot that he only had two hamsters. After he had thrown his ammunition, he sat in his wheelchair quietly, waiting for Ser Pounce to make a path onwards.

'Quick, over there! The frogs are escaping to that large elaborate cathouse!' shouted Ser Pounce, pointing a claw at a towering brick building, pink lighting and pumping jams emanating from within. 'They must be returning to their leader, our target in this endeavour! Quick, friends!' And off he went. Doran had to stop to collect his hamsters, but he followed soon afterwards, if only to ensure that the events that unfolded within the cathouse weren't too ethically questionable.

As they entered the cathouse, the pumping tunes were continuing, but they saw all around them that the people who would have previously been totally chill, on account of them having the company of some frog harlots to keep them company, are now totally angry! And boy oh boy are they getting riled up! Ser Pounce was also getting riled up, but for a different reason.

The frogs were all preparing for a dramatic final showdown, and began their frog battle croaks. The walls shook, and Doran quaked in his boots. Ser Pounce would have done too (if he actually wore boots - a cat wearing boots?! Cor, imagine that!), but he had to make some time to have a rant about something. With this in mind, he brought a stop to this incoming dramatic battle by shooting a huge gilded chandelier that was hanging from the ceiling, and watched at it fell down and crushed all the frogs suddenly and anticlimactically, their battle cries cut short and replaced with the cacophonous crash and clatter of a big fuck-off chandelier.

Ser Pounce turned to his comrades, and pointed up at what he presumed was the source of the music. 'Do you fucking hear that!?' he shouted, angry as a cat can be.

Doran nodded. 'Yeah, it's Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Love these guys.'

Quick as a flash, Ser Pounce smacked Doran across the face with the power and wrath of a thousand suns. 'Don't you EVER speak of this abhorrent band in my presence again, you hear me?! They are SCUM!'

Doran quietly pondered to himself the capricious nature of Ser Pounce, and how he could quickly change from being a happy-go-lucky whimsical creature to an angry confrontational drunken twat. He put it down to bad writing. 'We should probably…'

'Oh, yeah. Right. The big bad guy,' said Ser Pounce, obviously having composed himself once more, though his eye twitched slightly as he looked up at the speakers. 'Come on, he'll be in a private suite.'

And so it was that the gang entered a private suite in a cathouse in the Frog Kingdom, and encountered Damir Redholt, the Frog King. Now this frog here was pretty damn bloated. Not like Jabba the Hutt bloated, but still pretty fat. Such is the shape you would expect from a gluttonous epicurean hedonistic amphibian. He wore a tiny black bowler hat, that perfectly complimented his warty cream skin, and his wide mouth was curled up into a thin smile as he took puffs from his long winding pipe. He looked at the new arrivals with interest.

'Ohoho,' he laughed, his voice like the burbling of a shower drain. 'And who might you be?'

'We're the guys who are going to tear you a new arsehole! But in like an unorthodox place, like in your armpit or something!' cried Ser Pounce, somehow managing to retain the same tones of anger despite the long sentence.

'Or, maybe we won't, depending on whether or not you're an antagonist,' added Doran, still cautious that he may be making a mistake with this brutal frog murder.

'Ohoho! Well then, arsehole rippers, it looks as though you are too late! The time has come for me to flee, with the help of my… associate!' And with that, the puffy squish head of this bulbous frog began to bubble and reshape, become more like a viscous liquid than actual skin. And from his squishy head sludge rose a man… a man with A RECOGNISABLE FACE, AND A LOVE OF GEOGRAPHY!

'HOLY SHIT, IT' S YOU!' screamed everyone simultaneously.

'You may have quietened my inferior underlings, but you will never be able to destroy me, Mr Geography!' burbled the fat man. 'And my dastardly plan, to spread geography everywhere, will come to fruition soon enough! You just wait and see! But until then… toodle-oo!' And with a mighty ground-shaking frog leap, the Frog King and Mr Geography flew away into the stratosphere, out of the reach of even the most tenacious of cats… for now.

'WHAT A DICKHEAD!' screamed Ser Pounce.

'Wait, why would the underlings of a man who promotes geography want to get rid of geography? Those seem like contradictory ideals…' thought Doran.

'ABSOLUTE PRICKSWITCH!' cried Ser Pounce.

'And what's more, why would a geography personification side with a big frog? Are frogs like related to geography? Is there more to this than meets the eye?' he mused to himself.

'CORPULENT GUNDIGUTS GALLIMAUFRY OF ALL THAT IS TERRIBLE!'

They left the desecrated cathouse, frog corpses all around, and walked out the doors, Ser Pounce still cursing wildly. He quelled his outburst when they saw Jorah the Andal standing atop a pile of frog corpses, stacked almost as high as the buildings surrounding it. He was frantically pouring a container of gasoline atop the bodies, grumbling to himself and kicking the corpses in disgust.

'Err, Jorah? Are you alright over there?' asked Ser Pounce.

'I shall be! Once I have had… my vengeance!' he replied, not looking up from his task. He leaped down onto the ground, to look upon his handiwork.

'Say, Jorah, I still have a, err, couple of thoughts about the ethical issues surrounding this. Tell me, do frogs feel pain?' asked Doran.

Jorah looked at Doran with a stony gaze. 'I hope they do.' He lit a single match, and flicked it onto the bodies, laughed wildly to himself as the bodies ignited and the flames danced into the night. Semi-awkwardly, the gang left Jorah and his creepy vendetta against frogs, and sought to find Mr Geography, and possibly, rediscover the whimsy with a slightly less maniacal employer.

HOLY FUCK THIS TOOK WAY LONGER THAN USUAL

LIKE I'M TALKING TWO AND A HALF HOURS

I NEED TO GO GET A GINSTER'S SAUSAGE ROLL NOW, BUT IT MIGHT BE TOO LATE

DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY PAIN

OH YEAH Y'KNOW HOW THE HOUND IS BACK AGAIN?

MAYBE WE'LL GET TO DO WHAT WE DID IN HANDOVER PART 2 AGAIN

I.E. ARYA AND THE HOUND MONSTER TRUCK TEAM-UP/DEUS EX MACHINA

LIKE I'M NOT SAYING THAT THE MAIN ANTAGONISTS WILL BE SUDDENLY MURDERED VIA MONSTER TRUCKS

BUT THAT MIGHT HAPPEN

ANYWAY, STAY FROSTY


	7. Chapter 7 - Hakuna Matata?

GREETINGS EVERYFRIEND

SORRY WE'RE LIKE KIND OF LATE WITH THIS, WE WERE BUILDING A STEAMPUNK GUNSLINGER AND WE HAD DO DISPOSE OF IT WHEN IT INEVITABLY WENT ROGUE

TODAY SER POUNCE IS GONNA GO ON AN ADVENTURE QUITE LIKE NO OTHER

BUT FIRST, WE HAVE STUFF TO TALK ABOUT

LIKE HOW WE FOUND A CARTON OF UM BONGO HIDDEN IN THE FRIDGE BEHIND A LOAD OF BEER CANS

LIKE THIS MUST HAVE BEEN A CARTON THAT SURVIVED THE APOCALYPSE

I MEAN DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE IT IS TO FIND AN UM BONGO IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE UM BONGO APOCALYPSE

ALSO YEAH YADDA YADDA YADDA GAME OF THRONES WAS GOOD BUT PREACHER WAS ALSO GOOD

COME WITH US ON A JOURNEY THROUGH LANDS NOT DESCRIBED (BECAUSE WE'RE NOT GOOD AT WRITING)

OK LET'S DO THE DO

Chapter 7 - Hakuna Matata - It Means 'Revenge'

It was a rather beautiful day amidst the green pastures. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly were having a picnic in a serene idyllic meadow, listening to the distant sound of the babbling brook and their own playful banter, and chowing down on some tasty jam sandwiches. Doran reached out and bopped Ser Pounce on the nose, and they all had a great little giggle at that. Everything was just perfect in the world of these protagonists.

(I mean yeah technically they're supposed to be like finding Mr Geography and Friends, but let's just acknowledge the fact that the lads need some radical relaxing time. Saving the world is like a strenuous job, a shit load of time needs to be dedicated to it. The heroes who are responsible for sorting out all our shit for us need some time to have a sick picnic from time to time).

But wait! Ser Pounce heard the tell-tale ring-a-ding-ding of his text alert going off! And he looked at his Nokia ZX800 and he saw that he'd received a text from his friend Francis the Fascist! 'Quickly lads!' he cried. 'We have a friend in need! And a friend in need is a friend indeed!'

'Wait, isn't he a fascist?' asked Doran, brow furrowed. 'Because I'm not sure we should be helping one of them.'

'What, no!' said Ser Pounce. 'What ever gave you that idea?'

'I mean, he's listed as 'Francis the Fascist' on your phone contacts list.'

'It's an inside joke.'

'Are you sure we should be helping him? You know, he might be wanting to do some unseemly things, as could be expected of a fascist.'

'Nah, it'll be fine. Francis is a good hearted soul. Now lads, as I said earlier, though it seems to have lost some of its dramatic effect since you interrupted me the first time… we have a friend in need!'

And so the lads skedaddled out of that there meadow, taking their jam sandwiches with them. They eventually made their way to a old storage unit in a grubby old council estate. They could tell it was Francis' unit due to the loud ska music emanating from within. Ser Pounce rapped on the rattling metal door, and in a moments it was opened by Francis.

Now holy shit, look at this guy. Viddy this, my droogies; a lanky bald man, dressed in a leather jacket, skinny jeans and steel toe-capped boots, with a look of foul contempt slapped on his face and a swastika tattoo slap bang in the middle of his forehead. His scowl was so aggressive that it threatened to cause his entire face to curl inwards on itself like a shrivelling prune, but it quickly mellowed out and reshuffled to a look of mild approval upon seeing Ser Pounce rapping on his door.

'Well fuck me, if it ain't that bastard cat wot I done contacted!' exclaimed Francis, his voice so thick with the Common accent as to be damn near indecipherable to those unaccustomed to its drawling syllables. Doran was one such person, and looked rather disturbed at this turn of events.

'Easy, Francis!' shouted Ser Pounce, over the blaring sound of the pumping ska music. 'We have travelled over the Wachi Field from Westeros through snow magic, to find you, dear Francis! To solve your little quandary!'

'Wachi Field?' queried Francis, still yelling. 'Wasn't Wachi Field once part of Westeros, but was separated by Snow God, because of the war between Gods and Titans? Which subsequently destroyed the land?'

'Yes! After the war, Westeros' time flow faster than Wachi Field, which the life is slow with animals and fairies and full of mischief!'

'Sorry mate, I can't hear you over all this ska music!' screamed Francis. 'But it sounds like you were making an incredibly stupid reference to an incredibly, I mean incredibly niche cat-based animated television series with broken English!'

'Aye, I was!' confirmed Ser Pounce. 'You always were good at picking up on my potentially obscure references!'

'Potentially? That's more obscure than knowing it's been two days now at the five-minute mark in Dino Riders!' Ser Pounce and Francis laughed incredibly loudly. Doran looked on, scared and concerned. (Don't worry audiences, I'm not sure about this joke either. Just let it pass and then we'll get back to the plot.)

Francis ushered his new guests into his storage unit, and threw a spare boot off the floor at his speakers to put a stop to the ska music. 'So, my fascist friends-' began Francis.

'Err, excuse me, not to be a negative nelly, but, err, we're not actually fascists,' butted in Doran.

'Oh,' said Francis, looking rather dejected at this new information. 'That's a shame, actually.'

'Never fear, my totalitarian buddy!' said Ser Pounce, all smiles. 'We are perfectly capable of throwing away our morals in exchange for cash. Why, just read last chapter, and the frog genocide written within!' Doran took a swig of whisky, to forget those dark memories.

'Well,' said Francis, looking a bit better at this consoling, 'it's not a matter of fascism that I have brought you here today, in fact. It is a matter of not my perfect physical being, but my fractured heart and soul! You see, I have spent so much of my time prejudicing against designated hate figures, I have had no time for love! And my mother is threatening to kick me out of the house, to stop paying the rent of this here storage unit! I'm 34 years old and I haven't even dropped a sprog yet! Whatever will I do?'

Ser Pounce clapped his paws. 'Well don't you worry your little fascist butt! For you see, me and my crew run an excellent dating service! It's called 'Ser Pounce and Prince Doran's Dating Service!' There's no joke there, because we don't joke around with your romantic future!' Francis was dazzled with this sales pitch, and began frantically collecting his stuff, readying up for a journey. Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, however, were less than pleased, as they had no damn idea as to what Ser Pounce was talking about.

CUT TO ABOUT THREE DAYS LATER. The lads have found themselves in a quaint little rural village, like something out of a Thomas Hardy book. Specifically, they found themselves traversing amidst the beautiful countryside homes of the area's gentry, the kindly high born folk who frequented this verdant green fields. This had been decided by Ser Pounce, who had apparently decided that this was the place to look for Francis' wife upon having him complete a questionnaire, a questionnaire Doran was almost certain Ser Pounce had ad libbed on the spot. Nevertheless, it was a rather pretty place to be exploring, and though Doran was finding it difficult to traverse the bumpy environment in his cumbersome wheelchair, he found he could appreciate his surroundings nonetheless. But enough with what he thinks, we've got romance to attend to.

Ser Pounce somehow managed to swindle the lads' entry into a humble town ball, a ball to which Ser Pounce knew all the hoity-toity town lasses would be attending. The lads rocked up as the ball was underway, Francis decked out in his best fuckin' clobber. The lads strutted through those damn doors, swung 'em aside with far too much force for the purpose of a dramatic entrance, and they surveyed the room. The dance was in full swing, everyone was getting their crunk on to the latest bit of djent played by everyone's favourite group of merry bards and troubadours, Meshuggah. Strumming away on their lutes.

'So Ser Pounce, what are we doing here?' asked Francis.

'Well, you silly boofhead, we're here to find you a lucky gal! Any of 'em here tickle your enchilada?'

'Oh, I don't know about that,' mumbled Francis, going a bright shade of red. What a pussy. 'I wouldn't even know how to go about talking to one of these women…' He gulped.

'Don't worry, Francis,' said Doran, happy to finally be of use. He knew the arts of romance. 'Let me help you out.' He reached out with his catcher's mitt and caught a pigeon mid-flight, handing it to Francis. The pigeon seemed alright with this though, finding refuge in the warm confines of the catcher's mitt. Francis hesitantly took the catcher's mitt from Doran.

'Now Francis, when you find a woman you wish to impress, perhaps even marry, hand her a pigeon. It's an ancient ritual that will ensure your feelings are known.'

'Well, okay,' said Francis. 'Are you sure this will work?'

'Err, of course I'm damn sure,' said Doran, expressing an imposing side uncharacteristic of the meek and mild Doran. Perhaps this change of behaviour belied something about Doran. Perhaps that he has been drinking to numb the pain of having been partly responsible for the death of many frogs, and now does not know what is going on. In fact that is what happened; Doran's blood alcohol level had rose by 45% in the last few weeks. Ser Pounce's had only risen by 0.3%, but when your blood alcohol level is already at 90 something %, you can't really go much higher. So yeah, Francis is being advised by not one, but two drunken fools, one of whom is a cat.

'Alright, then. If you insist.' Francis, pigeon in hand, began to tentatively walk through the crowds, looking for an eligible woman. He saw many an interesting face, including a fat man with a moustache on fire, but eventually one woman caught his eye, leaning against a wooden beam thing. The woman in question was a beautiful specimen. Blue hair, blonde eyes (like a kind of white-blonde, mind you, otherwise it'd be unrealistic), a bosom you could fit like five hundred GameBoys in. Holy shit, that's a lot of GameBoys. Cor, imagine that! You could play Yoshi's Island and Super Mario Advance at the same time, as well as having 498 additional GameBoys left over! Woah! Bodacious!

So if that's not beautiful, I don't know what is. Awkwardly, Francis bumbled on over to this apparently beautiful woman, and when he caught her eye, he instantly looked away, all awkward and embarrassed and stuff, and was all but ready to retreat, bail the fuck out of there. But just as Francis was turning to leave, to go and cry somewhere in shame of his own ineptitude in talking to ladies, the pigeon that was so comfortably nestled in his catcher's mitt took flight, and landed on the beautiful lass' hand. She gasped with shock, and looked up at Francis, who was bumbling away oh so fast.

'You sir!' she exclaimed, voice high and euphonious. 'You have brought back my cherished pigeon, Sinbad! He left me twelve years ago with grand ideas of fame and stardom, and his leaving me brought many a tear to my eye! But you sir have brought him back to me! Oh, the trouble you must have gone through, oh, the trials you must have endured!'

By this point, quite a crowd had gathered around the couple, and the blue-haired lass was crying tears of joy. 'Come, my saviour, my bringer of happiness! Let me express my gratitude to you! Come, let us take a prolonged stroll in the beautiful serene woodland, culminating in an impromptu and heartfelt marriage ceremony after which we shall spend the rest of our lives together in bliss!'

Francis looked on, flabbergasted, as the crowds around him started cheering, and the blue-haired lass, who I shall now call Coppelia for simplicity's sake (y'know like how copper oxidisation creates like a greeny-blue verdigris colour - yeah I thought this through, fuck off), jumped into his arms, taking care to reposition the pigeon so as to ensure it does not get squished in their loving embrace. Ser Pounce and Doran looked on, bewildered by this fortuitous turn of events, and decided that there work here was all but done.

OR THEY WOULD HAVE DONE, WERE IT NOT FOR THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF ORGANISED RELIGION! The doors creaked open once more, before the festivities could recommence, and a priest walked through the doors. He wore a massive wide-brimmed hat that shaded his shrivelled walnut face, and his slow walking was accompanied by the rustling of his black robes and the clack-clacking of his huge fuck-off walking cane on the wooden floor. Everyone looked on in awe and horror. Who knows what the arrival of this man could bring?

'Brother Hodge!' cried Coppelia. 'What are you -'

'I have come,' replied Brother Hodge, his voice a lowly drawl, 'to inform you of this man's… insincerity. For did you know that pigeons in the wild only have a lifespan of around six years? Therefore, we must conclude that this man, bringing you this pigeon, is no more than a fraudulent-'

Francis panicked then, and did the only thing his fascist mind could do. Commit violence. 'Brother Hodge? More like Brother Hodge-Podge! Take this, you cunt!' He grabbed the cosh in his pocket and clobbered the priest across the bonce with it. The priest fell with a cry, slumped to the floor in a heap. 'Yeah, you pious prick! My fists are the gavel of justice, and your face is the little wooden thing that the gavel hits!' Francis began to release a whirlwind of pain on Brother Hodge's face, much to everyone's general shock.

Ser Pounce and Doran knew that they had to interfere, and so they readied themselves for a battle to remember. But then, all of a sudden, there was a little buzzing sound from within one of Doran'd wheelchair compartments. Ser Pounce, knowing it to be his phone, and worried that it may be something important, grabbed it and looked at it, aware that he'd received a text message…

'Oh shit!' shouted Ser Pounce, tapping Doran on the leg frantically and pointing at his phone. 'We forgot about our fucking hot air balloon ride!'

'Oh no!' cried Doran. 'We've been looking forward to that for weeks!'

'Oh golly, I feel like a right bint! I hope we can still make it.'

'We should be able to, if we leave now.'

'You're right. We better say goodbye to Francis.' He waved over to Francis, who was now looking around, blood covering his fists, at the countryfolk around him. 'Here, Francis! We've got to go now mate!'

'What?' asked Francis, rather meekly.

'Yeah, we've, err, got a hot air balloon ride to go on. We've booked it ages ago, so we've got to go to it.'

'What?'

'Yeah, so err. Y'know, we can't just ignore it. You alright here though? You've got this under control, right?'

'I-'

'Course you do! Alright, see you later!'

The lads then ran out of the door, only looking behind them when they heard the sound of commotion caused by an entire town attacking a single fascist, but shrugged amongst themselves and ran as fast as they could to the hot air balloon site.

Okay so in order to establish the fact that this next bit is going to take place in the actual Game of Thrones episode (yes, alongside the actual plot), we decided to do a verbal reconstruction of the Game of Thrones theme song, to get readers in the mood.

DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DAAAAAAA DUUUURRRGH DADADAAAAA DUUURGH DADA DOOMDOOMDOODOODOOMDOOMDOODOO DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA DA DA DADA

Okay so now we've done that:

Ser Pounce et al. are chilling in the hot air balloon, taking in the beautiful sights of the world below. They happened, at this moment, to be flying over King's Landing. Wow! What fortuitous circumstances! Will these friendly chums have time to appreciate this serendipity? We shall see!

Anyway so there's four of 'em in the hot air balloon at the moment. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, the important fellows, and also the geezer who owns the hot air balloon, Travis Hickman. He's got a pretty distinctive appearance; he's four foot tall, has a padlock tattoo over one eye, and is rocking a leather jacket emblazoned with the words, 'fried rice is nice', in the Jokerman font. Travis Hickman, however, is not a very opinionated guy, and so he's probably not going to be saying much. I mean I know he's not going to say anything, because I'm not going to write his dialogue.

The lads were enjoying themselves immensely, taking in all the CGI streets and CGI castles and real-life King's Landing gay bars. 'Wow, this is way better than Lord of the Rings!' commented Doran, eyes wide with wonder.

'I'll tell you what else is better than Lord of the Rings. Check out what I bought yesterday from the Alchemist's Gift Shop!' From his fuzzy pocket, he pulled out a small tub of gel. 'That's right, flame retardant!'

'Woah! What's that, Ser Pounce?' asked Doran.

'It's flame retardant! I just said that! It makes flames, like, not burn you, or something!'

'Wow! That's a useful thing to have! But I must ask, dear friend, why did you buy that?'

'The need just took me, y'know? I was thinking, I have so many things that are important in life, but I don't have any flame retardant! And what does having all these important things mean if they could be taken away from me at any second by fire? Nay, I say to thee, nay! I shan't have my earthly possessions swiped away by fire! So we're getting this hot air balloon to stop off at Dorne, and cover our dear friend the fisherman with flame retardant! Then he'll be safe!'

'Wow, what a great idea! But wait, the fisherman spends his entire life around water! Surely this here flame retardant is not necessary?'

'You can't be too careful, dear Doran! What about oil spills? They're sometimes in the water, and they could potentially pose a fire-based threat to our friend the fisherman!'

'But Ser Pounce, what if our friend the fisherman falls into the water, and the fire retardant gets washed away by the merciless tides? How would our dear fisherman friend defend himself against vengeful flames then?'

'Hark, the evil flames, they come! The despicable glimmer, it poses a threat to all of us! I hate fire as the Devil hates holy water! I wish my bloody eyes may drop out if it is not true!'

'Why the melodramatic tirade, Ser Pounce?'

'I just hate fire that much, Doran. Your insights into this subject have shown that my fire retardant is all but useless! I shall throw it away to the city below, where the mire of the peasants shall swallow it whole! Farewell, dear fire retardant!' And with that, he threw his small tub off the hot air balloon.

It was at this moment, that, just below them, Jonathan Pryce was about to drop his most fire mixtape in the middle of the sept, with all his bros around ready to witness this totally sick music. He presses the play button on his big arse stereo, and BOOM! Fucking explosion of green fire shoots all up in this bitch. Blasts his radical shades and golden chains right off him, makes him combust like a fucking wicker man and then kasploosh outwards like an effigy stuffed with dynamite. BUT, in the excitement of this here explosion, it may have gone unnoticed that, through a tiny little inconspicuous slat in the roof of the sect, there fell a tiny little tub of *gasp* fire retardant! And this here tub of fire retardant, right, (which was the exact same one thrown by Ser Pounce, just to clarify, not just some other random tub of fire retardant that just so happened to be falling in this exact spot), it managed to unscrew it's little cap thing off, right, and it spilled its incredibly useful saving contents over a certain gang of people. Yes, it was the Tyrell family! The only people in the sept who anyone gave any kind of a shit about. And of course, I mainly mean Mace. Because come on, he's the greatest. He once wore a silly hat, that's great. Oh and Natalie Dormer is really hot (haha fire jokes) and Finn Jones is kind of alright I guess. He dresses like a vagrant, what's up with that? And he's been getting on that body modding hype train with his new forehead tattoo thing. Pretty damn wacky.

So anyway, they get doused in fire retardant, JUST IN TIME, because the wall of vibrant green fire is a-coming, ready to fuck up some unsuspecting fools. But fortunately, the Tyrell lads have got luck on their side (or perhaps just a cat), and so they're totally fine despite the explosion. But nah, fuck that, they've got fire retardant on, not explosion retardant, and so they get blown the fuck out of there! They fly straight up into the sky, like missiles, and Ser Pounce and Pals are all like, 'What the fuuuck?' at this unanticipated turn of events. I mean they were just having like a peaceful serene hot air balloon ride, when bam, explosion beneath them, people flying up at them. Holy shit! This holy shit-ness is continued further when the flying Tyrells smash through the base of the hot air balloon, and out the top again. Through this punctured hole in the hot air balloon, all the hot air in the balloon flies the fuck out, making a comedic fart noise, because this is a light-hearted story. Aside from the occasional paedophiles and frog murder and leg squishiment and the fiery deaths of the entirety of Slayer and a single lizard, but fuck off.

SO YEAH, THEY ALL FLY AWAY. And where do they land? Why, they land right the fuck back where they left off, in the lovely quaint countryside settlement! Although it's not so lovely at the moment, on account of there being a giant smouldering wreck of a hot air balloon tarnishing the idyllic landscape, and the fact that a large portion of the town's populace were crowded around a tree, clutching torches and pitchforks, gathered around what appeared to be a rather perturbed looking fascist nesting amidst its upper branches. 'Oh shit, Francis!' exclaimed Ser Pounce, after having recovered all his friends amongst the remains of the hot air balloon (not Travis Hickman though, he didn't leave enough of an impact to be considered a friend). 'We ought to go and save him.'

'Yeah, that's probably a good idea,' said Doran, bushing himself down. 'But, what about those there Tyrells? Are they okay?'

'Well of course they're okay, they had their fire retardant on. No worries, dear Doran. Let us take a Tyrell with us, to make up our numbers and deter these here aggravated locals.'

'Good shout. Take the intimidating body-modded sort over yonder.' And so between the two of them, the cripple and the cat lurched Loras to his feet once more, who seemed rather disconcerted with these current events. I mean, not ten minutes ago (yeah they were flying through the sky for a while, don't worry about it), he was confessing his sins to a swag old man, and had been marked with a gnarly tattoo to show that he's gonna be a pious pal. But here he was, in a field in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, with a talking cat and also a cripple. It just goes to show, children, that with a little Ser Pounce magic, you never know what's going to happen! *winks at camera*

So yeah they bumbled on over, and the townsfolk dispersed after seeing this fucked-up nomad with a fucking star carved into his face with whom they certainly did not want to mess with, and Loras looked up in the tree to see a humble little fascist. This fascist face, normally so prone to frowning and grimacing and being all surly because of its hatred for Jews and whatnot, now seemed to mellow out, look almost happy. Why, Francis thought, look at this beautiful little miscreant! His face, so unorthodox, so different from the Aryans back home! And yet so beautiful nonetheless! This man is unique, in that he is both beautiful and weird-looking, on account of his bloody great star tattoo! What are these feelings inside me? Could they be… love?

YEAH, THAT'S WHAT IT IS. AND THUS BEGAN A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A MAN STUCK IN A TREE, AND A MAN IN A COTTAGE NEXT TO THE TREE, BECAUSE HE BUILT IT NEXT DOOR, WHERE HE LIVED WITH ALL THE TYRELLS. AND THEY STAYED THERE IN THAT THERE COTTAGE FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THE SHOW, UNTIL RIGHT AT THE END WHERE THEY REVEALED TO EVERYONE 'NAH MATE WE'RE OK'. NO THEY DIDN'T THINK TO TELL ONELLA THAT THEY'RE ALIVE, THEY HAD EACH OTHER, AND A LOVELY QUAINT COTTAGE, AND LORAS HAD A TREE FASCIST AS THE NEW LOVE OF HIS LIFE. FUCK RELIGION.

And so, Ser Pounce, Prince Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly, content with the knowledge that they had changed this world for the better, walked along the side of a country road, picnic baskets and bindles in hand, happy with life, like the little endearing bindlestiffs they are. (Haha I got the word 'bindlestiff' in here.)

BUT WAIT, THIS AIN'T THE END. Because as the lads were strolling along the road, without a care in the world, a fucking Cadillac rolled up alongside them, its wheels aflame. Inside the car were three skeletal mariachi band members, all skeletal grins and bone-adorned instruments, and in the driver's seat was an obese devil with a finely tailored suit and a huge fuck-off cigar sticking out of his grinning mouth. 'Easy, Ser Pounce!' said the devil. He spoke in an incredibly thick and low-pitched Mexican accent.

'Oh, hey there, Satan!' said Ser Pounce.

'Hey, Ser Pounce, what about that road trip you were talking about last time we met?'

'Oh boy, right now?'

'Ayy, el gringo! Hop in!'

And so the lads jumped in Satan's Cadillac, and the lads sped away down the quaint country road, flames flying behind them. Fucking awesome.

FUCKING FINALLY WE'RE DONE

THIS WAS THE LONGEST CHAPTER TO WRITE BY FAR

AND WE HIT THE SHIT A LOT WRITING THIS

HERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT WERE SAID/WRITTEN DURING THE WRITING PROCESS OF THIS CHAPTER, TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA OF HOW PRODUCTIVE WE ARE:

\- RELIJIN OR RELIGON OR RELIDJINN OR RELIJUANN

\- 'I Fucking Hate All These Edgy Horses'

\- Bram Stoker was a mannequin animated by human piss

\- Never believe it's not Joe

\- Three pigeons, fused together with their combined powers, could be as old as me

\- Vox Vulgaris is my fucking jam

\- I don't want to hear his entire fucking life story, I just want his opinion on Thai fried chicken

\- Jonathan Pryce gets off on telling people they're evil; he wears that big potato sack to hide his erection

\- I wish Robert Jordan would fuck off

\- That is one ugly sprog!

\- Nippon nipple

\- Super eunuch, he fights with his fists

\- Samurais sprogs

\- Ginnungagap will always be impressive

SO YEAH THAT'S THAT

LOOK FORWARD TO NEXT TIME LADS

WE'D USUALLY SAY 'SEE YOU NEXT WEEK', BUT WE'VE HARDLY BEEN CONSISTENT WITH THAT

SO, SEE YOU AT SOME POINT, PROBABLY


	8. Chapter 8 - El Satan on Metallica Island

LONG AGO, WE UPDATED THIS STORY ON TIME

NOW THE LEGEND CONTINUES

YES FRIENDS, THIS IS THE MOST ON-TIME WE'VE BEEN REGARDING UPDATING THIS SHIT IN LIKE A MONTH AND A HALF

WHAT THE ABSOLUTE SHIT IS GOING ON? YOU MIGHT BE ASKING

LET'S JUST SAY… WE GOT BORED

THERE'S SIGNIFICANTLY LESS STUFF TO DO WHEN IT'S NOT LIKE TERM TIME OR EXAM TIME

HENCE THE REASON LAST CHAPTER WAS SO FUCKING LONG

I HOPE THIS CHAPTER DOESN'T END UP TAKING 3 HOURS 20 MINUTES TO WRITE

(EDIT: AS IT TURNS OUT, WE WERE NOT ON TIME AT ALL)

WELL… GAME OF THRONES HAS FINISHED, SO WE CAN'T TALK ABOUT THAT

SO I GUESS WE SHOULD TALK ABOUT HOW OUR LACK OF PRODUCTIVITY CAN BE ATTRIBUTED TO THE FACT THAT WE HAVE BOTH BECOME ALCOHOLICS

LIKE, FROM NO CONSCIOUS DECISION; IT JUST SORT OF HAPPENED

LIKE WE'VE GOT PARTIES HAPPENING ON MONDAY NIGHTS AND IMPROMPTU GATHERINGS CREATED THE NIGHT BEFORE AND OTHER SUCH BULLSHIT

PERHAPS SOME OF OUR DRUNKEN RAMBLINGS WILL END UP BECOMING PART OF THIS STORY

IN FACT, WE WILL MAKE A PROMISE RIGHT NOW TO OUR FAN BASE OF ABOUT THREE/FOUR READERS; THERE SHALL BE NO CHAPTER 10 UNTIL WE ARE PISSED OUT OF OUR HEADS ENOUGH TO WRITE IT

OH YEAH AND ALSO, THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO ME MATE ALLAN FOR BEING A GENERAL COOL GEEZER, AND TO ALL THE PEEPS OVER AT 'THE RIGHT PEOPLE' FOR HUMOURING ME IN MY QUESTIONS ABOUT CURSED SWORDS AND REQUESTS FOR DRAWINGS OF PEOPLE WITH OCTOPI FOR HANDS

OK THEN FUCK LET'S GO

Chapter 8 - El Satan On Metallica Island

So we join the lads on their road trip with their good buddy El Satan, speeding down Route 666, on the Highway to Hell (although in this universe, there is no Christian beliefs, so such a realm is referred to as 'The Place with the Hot'). Everyone was having a jolly old time; the best lute music in the Seven Kingdoms was blasting from the high-end speakers of the Cadillac (as well as accompaniment from the skeletal mariachi band), and the lads were all chowing down on some BBQ ribs, being cooked on El Satan's BBQ, which rocked from side to side rather violently seeing as it wasn't like secured down or anything, it was just a fucking blazing hot BBQ kind of squashed into the back seat of the Cadillac. But El Satan didn't appear too worried with this brazen lack of health and safety, so no one really raised an eyebrow. No need to be a negative nelly in these times of quality banter! Although perhaps said lackadaisical attitudes were catalysed somewhat by the fact that the crew were currently on their third bottle of tequila, and Ser Pounce didn't appear to be showing any signs of slowing.

'Ayy, Ser Pendejo!' shouted El Satan. 'Are you looking forward to visiting the Land of the Hot?'

'You bet your red bulbous arse I'm looking forward to it!' cried Ser Pounce in response. He had heard tales of the Land of the Hot; that all people who are especially hot (like if there's a heatwave or if they spend too long on their sunbed) get a visit from a little Mexican devil to invite them to the Land of the Hot, and all food in the Land of the Hot has got to have a minimum level of peri peri sauce on it. He had also heard that such a land was once going to be referred to as 'The Spice Isles', but the naming committee quickly cottoned on to the fact that the term 'spice isles' is actually a rather obscure synonym for the arsehole (see also: stink-hole bay or dilberry creek). Despite this minor discrepancy, Ser Pounce was damn hyped to experience this wondrous realm.

'Doran, what sauce are you going to get on your chicken? Medium? Hot? Or dare you try the hottest of the hot?'

'Hmm… I think I'll play it safe and get some of that Lemon and Herb.'

It was like a bomb had gone off in that car. The skeletons abruptly stopped playing their instruments, and everyone stared at Doran as though he were an especially assholish alien. 'Doran! What the fuck do you think you're getting at there?' asked Ser Pounce.

'Well, y'know, I like the medium, of course I like the medium, but I want to fully enjoy my meal, y'know?'

'It's not about enjoying your meal, Doran. It's about enduring your meal, you pussy.'

'Well, don't you have it when you're chowing down into your chicken meal, right, and then your eyes start watering a little bit too early?'

'No, tears are for the weak, and I will not shed tears for chicken. I shan't be beaten by my dinner!'

'Ayy, cabrone!' added El Satan. 'You are what we call in the Land of the Hot, a pendejo! From now on, I shall not call you Prince Doran; you are now Prince Pendejo!' He laughed to himself.

'But, you call Ser Pounce… Ser Pendejo! Is 'pendejo' an insult or not?'

'No no, you misunderstand, Prince Pendejo! I call your feline friend Ser Pendejo in an endearing way, like a joke amongst friends! I call you a pendejo out of legitimate malice, for your complete lack of tolerance for the spicier things in life!'

'Yeah!' piped up Ser Pounce. 'We should head off to the Land of the Hot, but you ought to take a detour to the Land of the Losers!' Everyone had a great giggle at that, even the skeletons. Fuck knows how. What even is a voice box? And do skeletons have them? Like I'm no expert on skeletons, much to my everlasting dismay. My mother cannot look me in the eye, knowing my lack of expertise when it comes to skeletons.

Suddenly a parrot smacked into the windshield of the Cadillac. El Satan immediately stopped the car; that could have been a bird of some importance he just crashed in to, like a member of a royal bird family or something, and he didn't want to be held accountable of any hit and run charges. El Satan is not above the law; traffic regulations are put in place for a reason and not even El Satan is exempt from them. Remember kids, you have a license to drive, but not a license to kill.

Ser Pounce went to the bird's aid. It was a huge fuck-off bright yellow macaw, that smelt slightly of oranges and lemons and other such sweet citrus fruits. The macaw, however, appeared to be fine from the crash, as it was now speaking to Ser Pounce. 'Hello there, friends, I come bearing a message from a man from far away. Your comrade in arms, Pineapple Larry.' It's voice was formal, yet tinted with a slight foreign accent that Ser Pounce could not put his dinky paw claw on.

There was a pause. 'Who?' asked Ser Pounce, genuinely confused.

'You know, Pineapple Larry.'

'No I don't know who that is.'

'Oh. Well, do you ever wonder what is west of Westeros?'

'Yeah, every day,' mused Ser Pounce wistfully.

'Who knows what wonders await us in such uncharted territory?' added Doran.

'Oh I know,' said the parrot. 'It's Metallica Island.' Everyone gawped at the parrot; this truly was a revelation and a half.

'Metallica Island?!' repeated Ser Pounce. 'Pray tell, what mysteries and magic lie in a place with a name such as that?'

The parrot (who's name is Montgomery, if you really must know; I mean I know we didn't need to give him a name, but I distinctly remember having to write down like two whole paragraphs about a goldfish called Jeremiah who wasn't even in the fucking story) stood up, and looked dramatically into the middle distance, ready to monologue the shit out of this faraway land. 'Metallica Island was not always Metallica Island. It was indeed once just a miserable stretch of land in a nondescript, underwhelming and frankly quite crap archipelago. But then, on one fateful day, something fell down from space, rocketed downwards and smashed bang into the middle of the island. When the rather morose island dwellers looked down into the huge fuck-off crater, they saw a lone CD case, from a band known as Metallica, encased in a block of golden amber. And then, things started to change.

'This was no ordinary space rock, you must understand. I mean, space rocks are already pretty out-of-the-ordinary, but this one in particular was pretty, as they say, 'kooky'. It's space magic influence leaked out onto the island, and what was once bad became excellent. Drab and drooping flowers bloomed into vibrant colours and sprouted on every surface. Decrepit sad-looking trees poofed into life, now tall and grand and imposing. And the people, once lachrymose and prone to sitting at home all day playing noughts-and-crosses and ball-in-a-cup and other such weak pointless shit, became a load of wacky drunkards with a right to party and love of the sweet jams that now pumped through every living thing. It was referred to as the Metallica effect.'

'That's pretty gnarly dude,' commented Ser Pounce.

'Yeah totally,' agreed Montgomery. 'But yeah let's go to Metallica Island. Sort some shit out.'

'Yeah sure, let's go do that.'

SO THEY WENT TO GO DO THAT. So Ser Pounce, Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly and El Satan piggy-backed on Montgomery as he flew them to Metallica Island. You would have thought that Doran would be at the bottom, because of his cumbersome wheelchair probably being difficult to like carry on a high-up people tower, but nah, there was a mix-up, and so it was Ser Pounce sitting on Doran sitting on Charlie Joe Connolly sitting on El Satan sitting on Montgomery. Ser Pounce is like the strongest, but he also needed to get a good vantage point of Metallica Island. And it was quite a nice island; all tropical trees and shining yellow beacons blaring into the sky. The lads were impressed.

So they landed, surprisingly gently considering how fucking unorthodox their travelling methods were, and they all trundled over to the little wooden hut on the white-sand beach. The hut in question was like a quaint wooden establishment, the walls adorned with countless garish golden pineapples stacked in rows, and the hatch ceiling thing festooned with little car freshener things to give the air a pungent lemon-ish scent. It would seem that this hut belonged to a certain pineapple enthusiast.

The lads caught their first glimpse of Pineapple Larry stumbling out of a porta-potty, a sad piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his flip-flop. He was a pretty large guy, wearing some rather uninspired swimming trunks and Hawaiian-patterned shirt (perhaps to match his uninspired name), and his skin was like a horrible sunburnt shade of pinky-red.

'What's up, lemon lovers?' he said, in the voice of the most fat American tourist imaginable.

'We were carried here by a parrot, to search for some guy called Pineapple Larry. I'm assuming this is you?' asked Ser Pounce. His observation skills are unmatched.

'You bet your citrus caboose I'm Pineapple Larry! Ain't no one in all the lands who loves selling and consuming pineapples more than me!' (Side note: pineapple is only actually available on Metallica Island, so this whole experience is quite overwhelming for everyone. I mean obviously Ser Pounce knew what a pineapple was, because he's some sort of omniscient super genius cat hampered by our lazy writing and his own alcoholism).

'This would have seemed a rather lofty title to uphold, were it not for the fact that no one else around here seems to be selling this mysterious alien fruit', commented Doran.

'Hey now, don't get bitter with me! I'm the best around, everyone knows it! Just ask guest star passing hermit crab!' Passing hermit crab offered no decisive evidence, but he needn't have to; the truth was clear. This man here was legit.

'So shit son, we heard you've got like something you need our help with?' prompted Ser Pounce, who was itching for an excuse to explore this land of opportunity.

'Oh yeah, this land is in GRAVE DANGER,' said Pineapple Larry. 'Y'see, this land is well dangerous, because in the forest, we've got these mosquitoes that if they bite you, you might get the flu. I mean it's like a 3% chance, same as any other country really, but you can't be too careful. So I'm going to have to rub you down with my special pineapple.'

The lads were all rubbed down with the special pineapple, and El Satan lit up a huge fuck-off cigar, a glint of glee in his eye. 'Ayy gringo, I can see that you have a spicy soul.' He laughed to himself, his voice a rich baritone. 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me to my home realm, the Land of the Hot, some time…'

'Sounds pine-admirable!' said Pineapple Larry. 'But that can wait for another time. Because in addition to these here mosquitoes, we have… another threat. He goes by the name of Dr Valentine Lowrider. He's a ten-foot tall tiger man with a really big chainsaw.'

'That sounds like a pretty dangerous threat!' exclaimed Ser Pounce. 'To see a fellow feline go rogue… this can only be the work of some sort of higher power medelling with the world's affairs!'

'Could it perhaps be a result of the villainy of our old nemesis Mr Geography?' asked Doran, deep in thought.

'Perhaps,' responded Ser Pounce. 'Tigers do indeed occur in geography. Not even such a mighty beast as a super strong tiger man could resist Mr Geography's nefarious ways! Pineapple Larry, how can we combat this mighty threat?'

'Dr Valentine Lowrider's modus operandi involves the creation of trials throughout this jungle environment. To complete these trials, you've got to collect the silver and ruby monkeys from the various locations, which equate to the amount of time you're allocated in the final Temple of the Jungle King. Silver monkeys mean five seconds and ruby monkeys mean ten seconds.'

'Ah yeah, that makes sense.'

'But be warned! His acolytes, Sid and Elvis, may attempt to throw a metaphorical spanner into the works by generally being a dick about things and attempting to sabotage your attempts of winning the amazing prizes! Also, he's a giant ten-foot tiger man with a chainsaw, so we probably ought to mention him as well.'

'Ooh, prizes!' cooed Doran. 'What prizes?'

'Within the Temple of the Jungle King, you'll face your biggest trial yet. But if you succeed, you have a chance of winning… a games console! Which we cannot name because of licensing reasons!'

'Wow, a games console!' says Ser Pounce. 'My favourite!'

'But wait, what's in it for me?' asked Doran.

'In second place, you can win a teddy bear!'

'Wow, a teddy bear! My favourite!' Doran has been satiated.

'Ayy pendejo, what about me, eh?'

'In third place, you can win a packet of fags!'

'Ayy! My gringo! We'll be rolling with the peri peri chicken overlords before the day is out!'

AND SO THEY ALL HEADED OUT TO GO WIN SOME PRIZES, AND SUBSEQUENTLY MURDER A TIGER MAN WHO IS TERRORISING A PINEAPPLE SALESMAN.

So Ser Pounce, Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly, El Satan and Michael Underwood (jungle explorer and lifelong friend of everybody involved in this group, coincidentally) headed off into the jungle. They found themselves on a wee wooden dock suspended above a big muddy mud pit, within which were little bowls which appeared to have something inside them! Luckily, Michael Underwood was there to explain what this trial was. It was at this point when Ser Pounce started phasing out, and thinking about what he wanted to eat for dinner. A curry, perhaps? Or maybe something simple, like a bagel. But nah, he really fancied a baguette. And then what would he do? Settle down in front of the TV? Oh, who was he kidding - he hadn't watched TV in ages! He then phased back in to the conversation and nodded, with no idea as to what he had to, but was pretty much certain he could ace it anyway.

So they all got ready, bamboo poles in hands. Michael Underwood clicked his little jungle timer, and the lads had two minutes to complete their task! Oh shit, tension! Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly and El Satan started concocting a clever plan, and Ser Pounce, wanting to look like he knew what was going on. However, he was nodding far too aggressively, and the power of his nods made him fall slap bang into the middle of the mud! What the fuck! He started to panic; firstly, because this was the domain of the mudmen, and therefore there was a chance that if he did not flee real quick, he may well be sold with the other sofas and such nonsense that the mudmen make their livelihoods out of, and secondly, because he was uncertain as to whether or not he had broken some rules in this here challenge. It appeared not; the lads were just having a bit of a giggle at his expense. Ser Pounce could accept this joke, but made a mental effort to later on pull a sick prank on Doran to balance everything out. He leapt out of the mud all graceful-like. Fortunately, the trial just kind of got solved by the other geezers whilst this whole palaver unfolded, so whatever. Y'see, no worries lads, we're refining the boring prolonged Jungle Run formula. We'll be through with these bullshit trials before you know it.

All of a sudden, angry at the fact that his trials have been trivialised and glossed over, an imposing figure leapt down from the trees and landed in front of the lads. Holy shit, it was the aforementioned ten-foot tall tiger man! And in his big smashy paws was a fucking huge chainsaw! I mean, compared to the tiger man, the chainsaw'd probably be like around the right size, but compared to the scale of the other geezers, who aren't really close to ten foot, it looks pretty fucking imposing.

'The fuck is this?' growled Dr Valentine Lowrider, in a voice frighteningly close to that of renowned Mexican Danny Trejo. (A lot of the characters we create now are done conscientiously thinking about who would play them in the inevitable Whiskers and Wheels film adaptation. Rhydian the bartender will be played by Vin Diesel, Francis the Fascist will be played by Aaron Paul, and Brother Hodge will be played by Cara Delevingne). 'How dare you glaze over my cleverly designed basket trials as though it is mere piss in the wind! That was strenuous and meticulous work, getting the bamboo grabbing things the right length and whatnot!'

'Such variables were apparently irrelevant in the long-term, fellow feline!' shouted Ser Pounce, who felt as though he needed to shout to seem imposing, not only because his adversary was considerably larger than him (in size, not in heart), but to counteract his oh-so-embarrassing cock up in the water mere minutes ago.

'I look forward to seeing you tackle my other dastardly trials!' said Dr Valentine Lowrider with a devilish tiger grin. 'Rest assured, they shan't be so easily ignored as this one!'

'Ha, we shall see about that!' shouted Ser Pounce. 'If there's one thing you shouldn't underestimate, it's the laziness of the omnipotent narrators of this overarching tale!' This was especially true, considering how said narrators starting writing this a fortnight ago, and if they'd have kept to their schedule they'd have been on time, as twas written in the opening paragraph of this shite. But alas, it was not to be.

Ser Pounce's words fell on deaf ears, as the tiger man had already bounded away through the trees. Perhaps he ought to have paid heed to these words - perhaps they are portentous…

SO THEN THEY DID SOME OTHER CHALLENGES. They collected the everliving shit out of those little tawdry monkey statues, climbed beneath all those waterfalls and faffed about with bamboo baskets and endured the ire of those hirsute little tarrywags Sid and Elvis. (We're a fucking month behind now, allow us this bit of laziness, we've just got to get this shit finished now).

So the lads were gallivanting through the jungle bush, led by an ebullient Michael Underwood, who was just so happy that these lads here had actually had some success with their monkey statue collection. He couldn't have the entrapment of more children in that accursed temple on his conscience. He thought about their faces sometimes, the faces of the children he had doomed to rot in the fetid confines of that temple. All that remained of them now were bones strewn amidst the filthy floor. Michael Underwood's smile belied a deep pain.

The gang emerged into a clearing, and amidst the shrubbery, they saw it. The Temple of the Jungle King, in all it's splendour. The huge monkey statue stood before them - it was really big and fat, like your mum. (Apologies for the ad hominem, we've been writing this for a month now and we're really sick of everything. But also because it's the only way to sufficiently describe how fat the monkey statue was). Michael Underwood beamed at the lads.

'Look, team! It's the legendary Temple of the Jungle King. The stories tell that within the confines of this here temple, lie complex puzzles that will challenge the minds of even the smartest of alecs! Yes, you'll face big old puzzles of like monkey faces, and like little shitty jumping puzzles, and like big stupid abacus things that I'm not really sure what the fuck! Yes, this will indeed test the very boundaries of human ingenuity and endurance! Do you have what it takes?'

The lads looked amongst themselves, shrugged to one another. 'I mean yeah, sure, I guess,' put forth Ser Pounce.

'Get on with it, muchacho!' said El Satan, eager to finally receive his pack of fags.

'Alright then, my jungle explorers, you're gonna run in there and complete those damn puzzles, and you're gonna get those damn monkey statues! And then you're gonna bring 'em out here, and place them on this here ornate stone table thing, which doesn't look like the monkey statues could really balance on it very well, but whatever.'

'Yeah, there really ought to be some like indentations in the stone, so it can like support the little monkey statues like a cup holder,' mused Doran.

'I'm worried that if we accidentally drop these priceless golden artefacts, stolen from some forgotten tomb, from no fault of our own but because of the faulty table design, then we won't be able to claim out prizes. Because I really want that nonspecific games console.'

Before Michael Underwood could respond, the table was destroyed with an almighty thwack. Holy shit, it was a chainsaw thwack! A chainsaw thwack caused by one Dr Valentine Lowrider! He destroyed the everliving shit out of that table, face ablaze with fiery fury. Sid and Elvis perched on his shoulders, leering as only dickhead monkeys can do with their surprisingly expressive faces. (Side note: what the fuck is up with Sid and Elvis' faces? Like dude, what the fuck, they don't look right. It looks like they stole their eyes from ageless immortals and now masquerade as omniscient prophets. Or maybe that's just my interpretation of them). Dr Valentine Lowrider wore an ammo belt thing that criss-crossed his chest, but instead of shotgun shells or bullets or what have you, he was fully loaded with coconuts. The most dangerous of nuts.

The dust caused by the sudden stone table destruction got all up in Michael Underwood's eyes and mouth, triggering his allergies, so he bailed out to go get his Epipen. The rest of the crew stared on in awe, not knowing how they'd missed this threat, considering it's a ten foot tall tiger man with a loud whirring chainsaw clasped in his graspy paw fists.

Dr Valentine Lowrider looked up from his handiwork, and shot the protagonist crew a look of pure malice. 'You inconsiderate scapegraces! How dare you devalue my finely created trials as such! You have completely trivialised my magnum opus, my life's work! And for that, you shall pay a chainsaw and coconut based price!'

'Oh shit, that sounds pretty ominous', muttered Doran.

'I dunno, he could be referring to like, chopping up some coconuts for us. For us to eat,' said Ser Pounce, ever the optimist.

'That sounds quite nice actually. But it would appear that the tiger man is approaching us quite menacingly, and his chainsaw is indeed quite threatening looking. When he like waves it around, that could easily be construed as a threatening gesture.'

'We needn't jump to conclusions.'

'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!' screamed Dr Valentine Lowrider, irritated that he was being misunderstood. In his eyes, chainsaws weren't exactly the most ambiguous things in the world.

'Maybe he's talking to someone else,' said Ser Pounce, looking around for who that could be.

'Ayy, muchacho gringo, cabrone cabrone,' said El Satan.

Dr Valentine Lowrider started screaming in anguish and rage, and the lads were just about to contrive another reason for his newfound angst when all of a sudden, there was a resounding crash and crumble of rubble. Quick as a flash, all eyes were on the origin of the noise - gasp! The monkey belly door of the Temple of the Jungle King was making a rumbling noise. Around them, the trees started shaking, and a dramatic soundtrack began to rumble through the jungle. I mean I'll probably just look like a fool here, but I'll try and imitate what the song sounded like: DUN, DUN DUN DUN, DUN DUN, DUN DUN DUN. Yeah, you probably just had to be there to fully understand how dramatic this here song was.

With a big booming crash, the monkey belly door of the Temple of the Jungle King fucking exploded outwards, revealing a lone man, standing with a fist outstretched. Incredulous looks were exchanged; had this one man just punched his way through a big ole stone monkey belly door? Why, yes he had, there could be no other explanation. But then, the man stepped out of the dust cloud caused by the sudden stone destruction, and all eyes were upon the man. And everything became clear.

Standing there was a muscle-bound man, who could only be described as 'inspirational'. He was tall, he was buff, he had a smile that dazzled all, he managed to look like a trustworthy and chill fellow despite only wearing a pair of hot pants. And what's more, he was golden-brown - so golden that he shone like the sun, like a literal beacon of hope.

'Holy shit!' cried Ser Pounce. 'Is that the renowned warrior and overall cool guy Ser Mike of House Danton, missing and presumed dead for several years, emerged once more where we least expected him to, in the Temple of the Jungle King!?'

'Aye, it would appear so!' responded Doran. 'What a strange and sudden appearance of a character! It's almost like, God stepped in to help us with our situation at hand, and gave us the renowned lad Mike Danton!'

'Well I'm not complaining! Mike of House Danton is a total geezer from what I've heard! Well, so long as you remember his House's one fiery hatred…'

Ser Pounce left this last sentence to settle in the air for a bit, a hint of what is to come. For you see, whilst Danton has been trapped in the Temple of the Jungle King for many years, surviving off of floor dust and willpower for nourishment, perhaps also seeking out the tempting prizes of a games console or a teddy bear, he had not forgotten his family's mantra: '… Fuck Guys With Sunglasses'.

Unfortunately, Dr Valentine Lowrider, despite being an acclaimed doctor, had never really left Metallica Island, and so was not aware of such mantras. And so, finding it difficult to look at this shining example of a perfect human being, he and his monkey accomplices all whipped out their aviator sunglasses to better examine this newcomer.

BUT OH SHIT. He shouldn't have done that. Danton's placid facial expression contorted into one of wild rage. He flung himself forward and landed gracefully on the chainsaw, much to everyone's surprise, and with a perfectly executed leap upwards he double-punched Sid and Elvis right in their weird fucking monkey faces. The monkeys flew backwards into the trees, no doubt eventually smashing to the ground somewhere, smoking craters where their faces once were. Dr Valentine Lowrider looked behind him in shock, his monkey companions swiped away from him as simply as taking candy from a baby. With that split second of Dr Valentine Lowrider's attention being diverted, Danton started frantically smacking Dr Valentine Lowrider around his tiger face, side to side like a rapid fly swatting machine. Like what are those obnoxious clackety things you get at football matches that spin around really really fast? Yeah, imagine one of them clobbering into your face really fucking quickly, and that pretty much emulates the situation Dr Valentine Lowrider is going through right now. In his shock, Dr Valentine Lowrider dropped his chainsaw, so that he could like cover his face or something. But that was the one invitation Danton needed. With a graceful flip backwards, he landed on the floor and with the strength of ten oxen hefted the chainsaw above his head, pulled on the little pulley thing to get the huge fuck-off mechanata roaring again, and then smashed this huge hunk of metal down on Dr Valentine Lowrider's arm.

'Holy shit!' screamed Ser Pounce, as all the lads went apeshit at this incredible battle unfolding before them, music blaring all around. 'It's Mike Danton's signature finisher move! The Hackman's Arm Massacre! In which he chops off someone's arm! Holy shit, I say again!'

'I concur wholeheartedly!' screamed Doran, spinning around on his wheelchair wheels.

Dr Valentine Lowrider was currently getting smacked with his own arm, in typical Danton fashion, but this is a whimsical story free of gratuitous violence, so we'll just kind of gloss over that. It's not important. I think at this point it's pretty obvious that Danton is victorious, and with a final big bombastic music explosion, Danton ran away into the jungle, perhaps to swim all the way back to Westeros. Godspeed that glorious man.

So the lads were kind of bewildered with this turn of events. The late Dr Valentine Lowrider was screaming in anguish at some unspecified menace - couldn't have been them though, they'd been excellent sports all day - and then the renowned madman Danton fled into the jungle. The squad bumbled around the area for a wee bit, before Ser Pounce called them all over to where the monkey belly door of the temple used to be.

'Here, guys, come check this shit out!' he said, gesturing them to come see this shit. 'Where that beautiful man Danton punched his way through the door, it buggered up the door close mechanism! The temple is pretty much open permanently now!'

'Hmm,' thought Doran. 'Does that mean that we can pretty much faff around in there all we want, with no time limit, and go grab all the prizes we want and then skedaddle?'

'Yeah, seems that way.'

'Alright, sweet. I wasn't sure if I'd have been able to enter the temple, because I wasn't sure if it was wheelchair accessible enough for me to be able to make a speedy escape, but this simplifies matters somewhat.'

'Ayy pendejos, let's go and get some quality prizes, ayy!' said El Satan.

So that's what they did. They got those damn monkey statues, and they cashed them in with Shifty Dave round the corner (a smuggler of priceless artefacts and procurer of quality prizes). Ser Pounce claimed his prizes, and then remembered that a certain friendly fisherman's birthday was coming up, and so made a mental note to wrap it up nice for the fisherman and give it to him on his special day.

AND THEN THEY ALL FUCKED OFF BACK HOME AGAIN.

THIS CHAPTER TOOK US, OVER THE COURSE OF A MONTH, AND IN LIKE SIX SEPARATE WRITING SESSIONS, FIVE FUCKING HOURS, AND WE'RE SICK OF IT

FUN FACT: WHEN WE WERE WRITING THIS, WE CAME UP WITH CONCEPTS FOR THREE NEW SPIN-OFFS FOR THIS FUCKING FANFICTION, ALL OF WHICH ARE BETTER THAN THIS

ENJOY SOME INANE SHITTY QUOTES THAT WERE SAID DURING THE WRITING PROCESS OF THIS:

\- Banter is perhaps the most important fruit

\- It smells like primary school

\- Thanks Glorm

\- Hume won woop

\- Look forward to next year when we write 'Benjen Stark 'Avin' A Lark' - all his adventures take place beyond the Wall, where fortunately, not enough time has been spent in the show to fully explain what is there, and so we can say that there's all sorts of theme parks or illegal poultry farms up there and no one can say that we're wrong

\- Neither of us know where the name 'Dr Valentine Lowrider' came from

\- Don't you dare mistake shit-weasels for arse-monkeys

\- We don't drink milk, we drink gilk - because you know what they say, every 'm' is better as a 'g'

\- Sunglasses are good, but gunglasses are better

\- All I want to do is wear shot glasses on my eyes and pretend to be an alien

\- My grandmother was too trusting of men with flails

\- Why spunk when you can spelunk?

\- I too am a big fan of the celestial giants that watch down on us from their lofty pristine empyrean; not sure about chocolate though

CHAPTER NINE WILL BE OUT AT SOME POINT, AS SOON AS WE'VE DECIDED WHAT IT'LL BE ABOUT

GOING BY HOW LONG IT TOOK TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER, I'D ESTIMATE IT'LL BE OUT SOMETIME IN THE NEXT THREE YEARS

LATERZ


	9. Chapter 9 - Fifteen Days with CharlieJoe

G'DAY FRIEND-OS

IT'S YOUR OLD PAL… KIM HERE

WITH ANOTHER HOT BATCH OF SPICY STORIES

LIKE, THEY'RE HOT VIA BOTH IT'S SPICINESS, AND IT'S TEMPERATURE, BECAUSE IT'S FRESH OUT THE OVEN

DOUBLE HOT

AND OH, WHAT A STORY WE'VE GOT FOR YOU TODAY

BECAUSE THIS IS A WHISKERS AND WHEELS CHAPTER… WITH A TWIST!

THE TWIST IS… USUALLY WITH THESE STORIES, THE AUDIENCE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN

BUT THIS TIME, WE DON'T KNOW EITHER

SO THIS CHAPTER WILL PROBABLY BE FUCKING ABYSMAL, BUT NO WORRIES

WE'RE WELL GOOD AT DOING ABYSMAL THINGS; THAT'S OUR SPECIALITY

GO READ THE HANDOVER FOR JUSTIFICATION

I MEAN TO BE HONEST WE'RE REALLY JUST STALLING HERE

BECAUSE YEAH, WE HAVE NOTHING

THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO ME MATE READER, YET AGAIN, WHO WROTE TWO LINES OF THIS

ALSO I NEED TO INCREASE THE WORD COUNT HERE, SO I THOUGHT I'D THROW IN THIS HERE ADDITIONAL DEDICATION TO ASSIST WITH THAT THERE TASK

LET'S GOOOO

Chapter 9 - Fifteen Days with Charlie Joe

Space. The final frontier. Or in this case, the penultimate frontier, because we're not on chapter ten yet. In the dark void of space floated a colossal space manatee. Inside the space manatee, visible through it's rubbery translucent blubber skin, is lots of green. Because inside the space manatee, one heinous villain is cultivating some verdant meadows and lovely green forests. A villain… with green fingers and some geography at his disposal. Yeah it's Mr Geography.

The imposing figure stood there, looking out into space through the translucent blubber walls. All the green around him was getting rather tiresome, and for a literal personification of geography, that was a bad thing to have to admit. Occasionally Mr Geography contemplated his place in the universe. Aye, he had the powers of geography at his command, but what is geography compared to the vastness of space? And if he truly was a man to serve the forces of geography, why did he dress and generally look like a villain from Captain Planet? Surely his modus operandi should involve destroying geography, not assisting it! But alas, he drifted on through this world of plants and trees and shit, and he sighed to himself.

Suddenly, his wife and legal advisor Damir Redholt the Frog King bounded along the fields. I mean I say bounded, it was more like when you get like a water balloon full of custard and drop it on the floor, and it kind of like blobs its way along. Damir Redholt landed with a resounding sloshing noise to the side of Mr Geography.

'My fellow comrade, intel has discovered the location of those do-gooders Ser Pounce and his cripple accomplice,' burbled Damir Redholt. 'It would appear that they are at the house of their friend, the fisherman, for his birthday party.'

'Ah, the fisherman, eh? I know him. He wasn't intended to be a major character, but fan reactions made sure that he kept on reappearing. This tenacious son-of-a-bitch much be quashed!'

'And, my geography-based bro, all of Ser Pounce and Doran's friends will probably also be in the vicinity as well. On account of it being a party. And because Ser Pounce's whole thing is that be befriends everyone.'

'Ah! Killing friends is my speciality! But I shan't deprive you of some good ole ultra-violence! Because I need to tend to my mountains and whatnot. Here, you'll probably need a tommy gun.' Mr Geography handed Damir Redholt a tommy gun, who grasped it in his bulbous frog hands. Do frogs have hands? Or are they like feet?

'Alright, cheers you Geography Geezer. I'll be off, yeah? Catch you on the mountainside.' And with that, Damir Redholt bounded away - next stop, Westeros. Mr Geography looked out the blubber window, all pensive like.

Meanwhile, the party was finally winding down. It had been fifteen days since the party had first began, and shit had been fucking wild. Alcohol had been drunk, fish had been eaten, drunken fishing matches and unlicensed riddling competitions had been taken place, outlawed by local constables, and then proceeded with anyway, often with the constables joining in. This party was so immense that the law meant nothing within the confines of this party zone. All the friends were there; Rhydian was there, invited out of penance after Ser Pounce and Doran fucked up his car park, Francis the Facist and his husband Prince Loras were there, looking rather dashing in their nomad clothing and offensive propaganda. Jorah the Andal, now donning a leather jacket that failed to hide his hideous frog arm, and smoking a cigar, looking repulsed at himself for being the only frog-like entity in the room.

Ser Pounce and Doran were chilling on the couch, having long since resigned themselves to a life of alcoholism, and had been staying perpetually drunk the entire time. Hair of the dog is one thing, but the true experts never get sober enough where the hangover kicks in. Genius, really. Ser Pounce looked at Doran, and burbled something that, were he sober, could have probably been interpreted as, 'Shit dude, this was a fucking stellar party. It's a good thing the fisherman was accepting of our drunken escapades over the course of these fifteen days.'

'Yeah, I concur', garbled Doran. 'I guess it's true what they say about fishermen. They're pretty chill.'

There was a moment of contemplation. 'I'm confused,' gurgled Ser Pounce. 'Was that supposed to be like a well-known idiom, or like a pun, or what even was it?'

'Neither, it's just a thing that people say about fishermen.'

'Oh. Okay. I guess you're right, what with this party epitomising such a phrase.'

Suddenly, Damir Redholt bursts through the wall like the Kool-Aid Guy, even screaming 'Ooh yeah!' He went far with this reference, because he is committed to his cause and a great advocate of the Kool Aid mascot. I mean, who isn't? He's a really powerful and memorable figure, and he's committed to his duties of like smashing down walls and causing property damage. (I mean speaking as English people, we cannot speak of Kool Aid's overall quality. Like we tried it this one time, but we were really fucking confused because the packaging said 'two spoons of sugar', and we had no idea what that meant. Like, how much sugar is that? Do Americans only have like one type of spoon? It baffled us greatly, and when we put in what we assumed was the intended amount of sugar, it tasted like shit anyway, because evidently we didn't put enough sugar in. Basically fuck Kool Aid, the Kool-Aid Guy doesn't deserve to be linked to such a shoddy product).

Damir Redholt, tommy gun in hand, opens his mouth, and opens his big gaping frog maw ready to make a threatening croak noise or something, but he is interrupted prematurely when a sword chops his arm off. But who committed such a party foul, you may be asking. I mean it's kind of obvious. There's a frog, and a really fucking serious avid frog hater in the room, who happens to be wielding a fucking sword. Take a wild guess.

The fucking arm flies off with an arc of dark black frog blood, and Damir shrieks in his burbling way. Try and imagine like a shriek, but spoken in a burble. That's what Damir Redholt just did. I mean I can't really imagine what that sounds like, but I am lacking in such imagination. Like my imagination is reserved for like important things, like this: the dismembered frog arm of Damir Redholt flies away with the force of the upward sword slice, and no longer supported by the viscous frog juices that revitalise frog bodies (yeah I'm very knowledgable when it comes to frog biology), the arm almost instantaneously began to shrivel, curl inwards like an accelerated mummification process until the arm looked all wrinkled and repulsive, kind of like when you set fire to mercury(II) thiocyanate and it kind of like produces the Pharaoh's Serpent reaction, where it like spirals outwards and looks all rank and brown/white and twisting and shit, if that makes sense. But then, the problem of this is that the frog arm, no longer made all squishy with the excessive frog flesh, becomes rock-hard with instantaneous rigor mortis, and the hand joints locked down hard. Clenching hard on the tommy gun's trigger.

OH SHIT! The gun started firing! Immediately, the unsuspecting meat shield in the way of the barrage of bullets was Charlie Joe Connolly, who was just kind of standing around. He gets riddled with an entire cartridge-full of bullets from Damir Redholt's tommy gun, and flops on the floor like a fish. I mean perhaps I shouldn't kind of faff around this, beat around the bush, he's pretty much dead. He is fucked. He got like a firing squad's worth of death shot at his gormless face. Rest in fucking peace, dude.

Everyone looks in shocked silence, and then the tears and blubbering comes. Not only was Damir Redholt's gatecrashing a total party foul, but now everyone's beloved friend Charlie Joe Connolly had been brought to an end by frog-based treachery. Being rather violent sorts, everyone's instinctive first reaction was to prepare for a slam down on this bitch-arse frog, but then it clicked. Whilst Jorah the Andal had technically been responsible for his atrocity, he was also sorting it out, as Damir Redholt was quickly being fucking massacred with Jorah's precise sword swings. So they instead settled down to blubbering, and reminiscing about the good old days. A bit of a sad end to a party, but y'know, all good things should end on a poignant note that makes you think, that put things into perspective.

So the rest of this chapter will be quiet contemplation, as to everyone's cherished memories of the beloved character, Charlie Joe Connolly.

Remember that time Ser Pounce, Doran and the fisherman went to go and see their friend Car Crash Graham at the Monster Truck rally? They'd laughed together about Graham's questionable facial hair, wondered aloud and laughed about whether or not said facial hair assisted him with his car crash survivability, and then watched in awe as Car Crash Graham crushed many lesser evolved lifeforms under the wheels of his roaring monster truck. What a great and wondrous day out with friends. Oh and Charlie Joe Connolly was there.

Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran teamed up with Knapsack Jack and the Whisper Shad to take down a powerful adversary? Jack had a magic technicoloured bag from which he could rapidly jettison animals from, basically just kind of circle-strafing firing flying elephants and bears at people, and the Shad used specialised swords with sodium crystals electroplated onto the blade so that the sword itself can be set alight with technicoloured flame, but since the sword is also made of sodium is is very brittle and pretty much explodes whenever you hit someone with it, so the Shad carries around a bag of fifty of them. Together, they brought down the nefarious Djent Djinn, a hovering entity black as sin with pearl-white eyes that swivelled mechanically in its sockets, who blasted the group with really fucking loud high-gain low pitch guitar playing, but with their powers combined the gang wrestled that supernatural shite back into the Marshall amp homicile from whence it came. What a victorious moment for man and cat kind. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.

Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran were walking home that one night, and they saw a big flash of lightning on the over side of the road? All of a sudden, a magical phone box materialised right next to them, and out stepped George Carlin, dressed in a long grey coat and holding an electric guitar. And he said, 'Most people are not particularly good at anything.' Ser Pounce and Doran pointed at George Carlin and said, 'Excellent!', followed by electric guitar motions. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.

Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran had to find Gaoler Nis (the giant caterpillar)'s precious copy of 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Doran himself thought that the poem was rather long and tedious for his liking, and Ser Pounce only knew of it's existence because of the Iron Maiden song of the same name. They eventually found the poem stuck behind the sofa. Gaoler Nis had moved it there whilst hoovering his lounge and had forgotten where he'd left it! The silly sod! Many a laugh was had at this light-hearted situation. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.

Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran solved a bread-based murder mystery? Numerous bakers had been found impaled with French baguettes, or suffocated with dough, or bludgeoned with rolling pins, which hardly really fitted with the bread thing. They met a doughy demise, as it were. As it turned out, they lived next door to a paedophile who killed people with bread, so luckily they could lock this heinous criminal up and throw him in the slammer where he belongs. He wasn't bread-y for this kind of judgement, that's for sure! Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.

Remember that time Ser Pounce decided to go visit his elderly grandfather, who was in a one-of-a-kind care home, that could, miraculously, stop death, a clever trick done by making time meaningless? And so in order to go see his grandfather, he had to navigate this fucked-up Escher nightmare realm where he just kind of goes through all these rooms of varying historical time periods, just kind of ambling through the French Revolution and seeing his grandad at different points of his grandad's life? Because Charlie Joe Connolly was there too.

And then, there was a time, where Ser Pounce, long before meeting Doran, long before meeting the fisherman, hell, long before meeting Prince Tommen, was walking the streets of a faraway land. He had just left a book shop/newsagents. Now Ser Pounce, the night before, had just been to an Iron Maiden concert, and so was still wearing his Book of Souls shirt. And Charlie Joe Connolly, spotting him from afar, wandered over across the road. He was also wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

'Hey, I love Iron Maiden!' said Charlie Joe.

'Yeah, me too,' said Ser Pounce.

'Do you want to be my friend?' said Charlie Joe.

'Yeah alright,' said Ser Pounce.

And from that day forward, they were the closest of companions. Charlie Joe meant more to Ser Pounce than everyone else, because Ser Pounce and Charlie Joe were complete opposites of each other. Ser Pounce, the cool centre of attention, Charlie Joe, the greeb who people often forgot even existed. But Charlie Joe didn't need to say anything; his presence alone said enough, for he was content. And unlike most people in this story, actually happy. Only the sad man insists on being loud.

So when we think of Ser Pounce as the loudmouth that he is, now that Charlie Joe is gone, Ser Pounce may shout even louder.

Rest In Peace, Charlie Joe Connolly.

Ser Pounce is in tears. He's broken, at his weakest point. But suddenly, in the midst of all this sadness, there was a gunshot. Jorah, content to smash away at the now horribly broken and smooshy corpse of the Frog King, falls over, blood spilling from his brow. Through the hole in the wall emerges Mr Geography. Mountains are visible behind him. Leaves swirl. He's come to exact his ultimate plan! I.e. to turn the whole world into… geography? I mean most of the world is pretty geographical already.

'Now the only competent member amongst you is dead!' boomed Mr Geography. 'Prepare to get fucked up!'

DUN DUN DUNNN

AND THAT'S THAT

THIS IS IT, THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER OF WHISKERS AND WHEELS, SEASON 1

THE STAKES ARE HIGHER THAN THEY'VE EVER BEEN

AND YOU'RE SURE TO GET AN INCREDIBLY SATISFYING CONCLUSION TO THIS STORY

HAVE THE USUAL LIST OF QUOTES:

\- You may have ruined your life and will now live in eternal misery, but here, have a tenner

\- I'm beginning to feel like a rap frog

\- The Hero of a Thousand Spoons

\- I like smart people things… oh my god, that dog has got such a huge cup in it's mouth!

\- It's surprisingly easy to imagine Ben with like an inflatable frog neck sac thing - he could use it for throat singing in his milk cult sermons

\- They call me the Poker De-Valuer

\- Coming up with inane shit to write down here is too easy - we've got to stop being so funny

\- His name is Quasimodo because he's got the Quasi-Mojo

\- I'm just faxing out controversy

\- I don't want you to annihilate my mother, stop that right now

\- I like how there's serious shit going on in the world right now, and you're talking about how the Japanese box their action figures differently to the English, and I'm typing the death scene of an irrelevant greeb being shot by a frog

\- Words fall from your mouth like shit falls from my arse

\- As they say in the hood, 'nyan'

\- I don't remember Nyan Cat, but I do remember my Nan's Dog

\- Why does Nyan Cat sound like a Jedi Master, or just like a minor character in the Star Wars films

\- Celts and Shoobies

\- I wrote a song about a small man who lives in my shed

\- His stomach is a tea cauldron

ALRIGHT, LOOK FORWARD TO NEXT TIME, WHEN WE'LL BE OF SOUND MIND AND NOT DRUNK, READY TO TYPE A SERIOUS ENDING

THE - THE - GOODBYE


	10. Chapter 10 - Your Great Son Has Returned

ALRIGHT THEN LADS

IT BEGINS ANREW

AND BY ANEW, WE MEAN, FINISHING

BECAUSE IT IS THE END

I AM QUITE DRINK RIGHT NOW

SO I'M RELYING ENTIRELY ON ME AUTOCORRECT TO HELP ME THROUGH THIS

OK, IN CASE YOU, THE AUDIENCE WERE WONDERING OUR PREPARATION TECHNIQUE FOR THIS

IT'S CALLED DOING 'A BOB AND A BOOSH' - WE WATCH AN EPISODE OF 'THE LOVE OF PAINTING' AND DRINK EVERY TIME BOB PUTS ON A NEW LAYER, AND THEN WE WATCH AN EPISODE OF 'THE MIGHTY BOOSH' AND DRINK WHENEVER THE FUCK WE WANT

AND AS SUCH WE ARE NOW DRUNK

GODSPEED LADS

THIS CHAPTER WILL BE ASSISTED SBY EVERYONE WE add TO THE CALL THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT

OKLEWQDOIUEHBGLIRUGOOOOOOO

Chapter 10 - We've Delivered Your Great Son

It was a tense moment. Jorah the Andal is dead. He is fucked. He is out of this. No longer coming back. Uf you see hm again, t's because the writers have poor sonsistcneyc. He is fucking dead. So Ser Pounce is all like 'What the fuck?!', and Mr Geography is all like, 'Yeah, get fucked! I'm gonna go all geography on your arses! I've always wanted the power to make mountains!' (This line was from Bob Ross by the way - RIP).

And so he makes some mountains. Two mountains, to be precise. Ser Pounce is on one, Dopran is on the other. Everoneb else is clinging to said mountains for dear life, because lo and behold, there's fucking lava all beneath them like. Og, no, what a terrible idea, may have been commented on by some onlooker or experiencer of some situation. No doubt they underestimated Mr Geography in this escapade, on account of his slightly mundane name, but in reality, he was a god of the land.

'I am a god of the land!' shouted Mr Geography, proving that he was, indeed, a god of the land. I mean he could have easily lied about such a thing, but in this case, perhaps his words smack a smidgeon of the truth. It doesnt seem like he's lying, he did make like two mountains pretty spontaneous like. I don't know many people who can make mountains - aside from you, Ciaran, with your mountain of shit. #getfucked.

So anyway, there's lava on the floor. There's mountains protruding from it. Where is Mr Geography? I dunno, probably above the lava? I mean his power is geography, so that doesnt mean he's impervious to geography's wrath. So maybe he had to make his own mountain to avoid the lava. So yeah there's three mountains. DOES THIS FACT THAT HE IS NOT INVINCIBLE TO THE GEOGRAPHY HE CREATES … COULD IT PERHAPS PROVE TO BE SOMEWHAT PORTENTOUS?! COULD IT RELATE TO HIS INEVITABLE DOWNFALL? I don';t gucking know.

So anyway, Ser Pounce will not be bested by this cunt. 'Come on squad!' he cries. 'Let's make a human monkey chain!' And so everyone grabs their arms and legs and they all swing, propelling Ser Pounce onto the same mountain as Doran. But oh shit! Due to the feeble grip of the frankly old-as-fuck fisherman, the monkey chain begins to wobble and shake pretty damn precariously. And oh shit! As Ser Pounce manages to gracefully and on that there mountain where that geezer Doran is on, the monkey chain fucking collapses! Shock and horror, as all these bodies begin their slow-mo fall into the fiery depths of the lava beneath them! HOLY FUCK

But does this mean that everyone's favourite cjaacer, the fisherman, is going to meet an untimely end?! I mean, we could totally think back to all those times that the fisherman was totally ebenfivcial, but he's appeared like,e twice in the whole fuicloimng fiction. So uf we did kill him, it qwouldnt mean shit. But as it turns out, by some fortuitous serendipity, it turned out that he did surive, as he landed on top of three corpses of unnamed NPCs, and as it turned out, the lava was in fact quite shallow. WHICH AGVE SER PEROUNCE AN IDEA. …

FOR TOUY SEE, SER PIUCNE WAS B EGINJING to wonder how much spit it would take to turn all this lava into molten rock! And as he saw how shallow the lava was, he figured it would only take three spits! But wait, he is but a cat! He could only muster but one spit to spit!

He launched a huge fuck-off globule of spit into the fiery depths. The lava began to sizzle and bubble, kind of like when you cook chill con carne on a pan. Doran, with his spiritual connection to his comrade Ser Pounce, also releases a big glob of saliva into this here pit of lava, and the sizzling continues anew. But wait, trouble is afoot! For you see, one Ser Pounce level spit is equivalent to like 1000 human-level spit globs. SO EVRERONBS' frantically spitting onto this here lava pit, trying to remedy this here issue. Because lava pits are indeed, an issue. Unless you're some sort of flame-based salamander who thrives in such fire pits, but such a thing is unlikely.

BIT ALAS. The efforts made by their numerous friends to reduce the levels of lava were moot! For you see, they needed but one more person to assist with these here spit levels! Everyone was spitting for their damn lives, but shit was not working! The average human spit was not worytj even the usual; human spit! Fuck i dont even know what I'm wtiynbf! We need BUT ONE MORE PERSON… PERHAPS A CERTAIN GREEB!?

BUT WAIT! CHARLIE JOE CONOLLY IS DEAD! WHAT SHALL WE DO?! But wait! On the horizon, the squad saw a huge pulsating ball flying towards them across the horizon. As the ball got closer, and the light of the lava began to highlight this here ball, the squad saw the truth. It was a huge conglomerate of squiashed-ytogether greebs. Holy shit, is that the Greeb Granfalloon?! Why yes it is, bouncing towards them like a huge icky mass of failed emos and edginess. It came close, shadowing the sQUAD WITH it's hueg mass. A hole appeared in the bottom of the flesh ball, and below fell a single body. It landed upon the top of the moon tain; a singular beam of light shone upon the the body, as if God itself was focusing on this here specific greeb.

'CHARLIE JOE!' screamed Ser Pounce.

The newly born Charlie Joe looked at him with his usual edginess. 'I am not CharlIE JOE,' said Charlie Joe. 'I am Charlie Joe point 2'.

And with that, he released an unholy tidal wave of flesh unto the lava below, and the lava was so creeped out by this uncalled for scene of fucked-up activity that it just kind of fucked off. Perhaps it made some sort of sad face before leaving. Who knows? I am not one to speak on behalf of LAVA.

'OH SHIT!' said Mr Geohgraphy! 'You've out-geohgraphiedb my goehrpahy!'

'SUCK IT, CUNT!' SCREAMED SER POUNCE, AS HE whipped OUT HIS TRUSTED GLOCK. He shot Mr Geography right between the fucking gonads. Bit wait, I hear you ask! Can you kill geography, a literal force of nature? I men shit, it is in fac, nature?! Well yes, yon can. Fuck up all goerha[hy. And avatars of geography. Including geography teachers. Fuck em up.

So yeah, Mr Geography gets shot right between the fucking gonads. A little goblin drops his left testicle into the bullet wound. Why did the goblin do this? It had the urge for blood. Nobody really questioned it, however, as everyone was celebrating the fact that this geography man was screaming in agony. He wasn't actually dead yet, though he looked like he was on the way out. He was bleeding mountains.

The goblin looked at a Triumph Herald (a pretty sweet car) as Mr Georhaphy had a difficult time bleeding to death and and shrieking in agony. His frog companuon was fucked beyond belief, and his attempt at vengeance was ruined by a shot to the bollocks. Ser Pounce looked at this rather pathetic scene unfurling before him, and decided it was time to put this anticlimactic and/or gay villain out of his misery. 'Suck my glock,' he said, as he let fly one more bullet right into that geography lord's forehead. Mr Geography fell backwards, completely defeated and mostly dead.

The gang started cheering. Happy sunlit days. Party music was put on. Perhaps the Party Rock anthem by LMFAO, and everyone was there, partying. Keep in mind, this is right after a fifteen day long birthday party for the fisherman/. Bit uypi lknopw what they say; nothing like three deaths to catalyse a party atmosphere. THE GAY COMMUNITY ARRIVE. It gets gay-ed up.

BUT THEN WHAT?! Like everything in this fucking story, there's an anticlimactic ending. How iill we end this thrilling saga?! We didn't know either. So we asked A WHOLE LOAD OF people how to end it. And combined their ideas into this:

Suddenly, the Pope ran through the fucking wall. He screamed out, 'YOU HERETIC!' at Ser Pounce. Everyone was shocked, their celebrations preemptively interrupted by this fucking Catholic fun sponge.

And Ser Pounce is all, 'WAHT,I ', NOT A HERTIC`? '

And the Pope is like, 'yeah you do!'

And Ser Pounce is all like, 'oh ok'

AND THEN SHIT HAPPENS

AS IT TURNED OUT, Ser Pounce was being held accountable for the illicit antics he used to bring Doran back to life, which the Catholic church had construed as being due to devil worship. So there he was, in a prison cell, in the Vatican. Everything was rather bleak and sad and lonely, and Ser Pounce was approached by a very magnanimous man who said, 'Give that man a bapple!~' And then Ser Pounce was happy once more, as he had a bapple, Though thatharldy maters in the overall; narrative.

IT;S BEEN 25 YEARS. and ever since the first day he was digging a day through that cunt wall and one day eww free! And hen he war;wd htpigh shit and the he was free! HE RAN THE GFUCK AWAy and then he met Ser Pounce, he was on a beach. He found out that Diran had actually been surfing atop a terminal illness, which took 25 years ti hit hi, apparently. he'd got like new friends.

HE DIED BY SER POUNCE'S SIDE. 'FUCK ME ONE LAST TIME,' SAID DORAN, but Se Pounce did not do this. Ser Pounce smothered Doran with an anvil right in front of Doran's tigger family, and then turned into a motorbike and cried. As death occurred, Ser Doran got some sweet armour and killed the tigger family with a sword. A real big sword though, yeah? Turbo Tard. Copyright. FCUK.

SER Pounce turns to the camera and says, 'BRING ME THE BAT,' and cripples his own son over a cat. WHAT. Then he read Doran's will, and found that Doran had left De Pounce his own disalbilu OH SHIR! So then Der Pounce didnt hqvw rookie legs! fuckkkk!

Nine years passed. Ser Pounce was at Aldi, in his wheelchair, buying a packet of brioches. When all of a sudden, his head caves in backwards, he deflates, flies around like a deflecting balloon, and then becomes the Pope. He lands on the Pope, taking control/. Like remember in Dark City, with the magic jellyfisj Yeah like that. Ser Pounce is now a magic jellyfish. And he is also the Pope. He gets a special cat-sized hat. 'YOU ARE

THEN, ONE DAY, LIKE IN MACBETH, THE GHOST OF PRINCE DORAN ATTENDS HIS DINNER CEREMONY. And you know what he says? 'Dude, we've got to get high, discover the meaning of life, and then defeat our evil robot counterparts! You need to destroy the void the dragon that is in the labyrinth within the centre of Mars! Get your arse to Mars!'

AND SO HE DID. They got to Mars. Ser Pounce fucked a Martian. But that was unrelated. He found a big fuck-off void dragon. It shouted, 'I AM MELANCHTHON, AND FUCK OFF!' Bit Ser Pounce did not fuck off. He, in fact, slide-tackled and then double DDT-ed that bastard void dragon on the surface of Mars. Ser Pounce fucking flew across the surface of Mars on a bungee cord, and delivered a brutal smack down on that cunt dragon right to the face. HE MADE A FUCKING BOW AND ARROW OUT OF THAT CUNT'S BONE STRUCTURE. I MEAN IT'S A VOID DRAGON, AND THUS PRESUMABLY MADE OF VOID, SO DOES IT EVEN HAVE BONES? I DON;T KNOW, I'M JUST WRTIJ FWHAT PEOPLE ARE CHATTING IN THE SKYPE CHAT.

(ok ive been informed that the aforementioned dragons are made out of sun/space metals but fuck off)

THE DRAGON SI FUCKED UP. THEN TEY FIND DOIRAN. THEY RESUSTRECT THAT CUNTU USING SPACE ANCGISA. ANBD TRGHE THEY GET HIUGH AND THET FIND THEUR EIIL ROBBOT XONFITNERPARYS; AS IT TURNED OUT, THE EVIL ROBPT COUNTERPARTS WERE A FINAL MENTAL REMNANT OF TGE AFIREMTNTIOONED ION DRAOGM . THE ROBOT COUNTERPARTS IN QUESTION WERE PRETTY DAMN ARSEHOLISH - THEY WERE ALL LIKE, 'YOU'VE GOT TO START THINKING "BEE" - YOU FUCK'

BUT WHAT COULD SER POUNCE DO THEN, WHEN FACXED WOYNT SHIS MORAL QWUANIERY !

AND THEN WHAT THET OBVIOPUSLKY DEFEAR TGEHM. ABD RGEB IT IS ALL GIODD..

"'MEGAMIND' IS ACTUALLY AN ALRIGHT FULM - I ONLY PRETEND TO DISLIKE IT BECAUSE OLLIE IS A FAGGOT" - Dylan, 2016

AND THEN, THIS BEAUTIFUL STORY ENDS WITH THE MAGNIFICENT PRINCE DORAN,RISNG FROM THE SAD FLIMSY ASHES OF TEH UNDERWORLD, AND HE FOLLOWED SER POUNCE, HAND IN HAND, INTO THE DOORWAY WHICH LED TO LANDS UNKNOWN BY ALL

LIKE A DOOR APPEARED IN FRONT OF THEM - OBVIOUSLY AN ALLURING DOOR, WITH LIKE A POSYER OF A CHICK WITH HER BAPS OUT ON THE FRONT ON IT - AND THEY WALKED THROUGH SAID DOOR HAND IN HAND, AND EVERYTHING WAS GOOD

THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS: HOME INSURANCE CAN'T STOP THE APOCALYPSE.

ALSO MAYBE d raon IS SCHIZOPHRENIC; MAN IS NOT REAL

A WORM IS NOT AN ORIGINAL IDEA - I WOULD LIKE A PROFESSIONAL TO TELL ME THAT - NO PROFESSIONAL IS GOING TO TELL YOU THAT YOU CUNT

DEAAATTHHHHHH

OK THAT;S THE END

WE ALL AHVE FINISHING SENTNECESL:

DYLAN SAYS ''WHY IS OLLIE SO MEAN TO ME?' AND HE ALSO BEGGED TO ASK, 'WHY DOES OLLIE LOVE MY WORM DRAWINGS SO MUCH? !'

QUESTION SAYS, 'HANG THE BITCH'

RUGGY SAYS, 'MY DOG LIKES TO WATCH STORAGE HUNTERS; SHE IS A GIMP AND A SPENG'

JACK SAYS: 'TO LIVE A LIFE IN THE EMPEROR'S NAME IS TO LIVE A LIFE WELL'

LAWRENCE SAYS, 'THUS THE WHEEL WHISKED ROUND IT'S AXIS ONE LAST TIME, AND THROIUGH THE CRIES OF 'HANG THE BITCH' AND 'DRAW A WORM YOU CUNT', THE CAT AND THE CRIPPLE HAD A KNOWING LOOK AT EACH OTHER, AND IN THE END NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED, THE END'

READER SAYS, 'I'M GONNA CLOG YOUR COOTER WITH MY CAREFUL CUCUMBER'

OLLIE GETS TWO QUOTES BECAUSE HE'S AN AUTHOR: 'WHY DOES DYLAN SPEND THREE WEEKS DRAWING WORDS?' AND ALSO 'THANKS FOR READING TEN CHAPTERS OF THIS, SEE YOU NEXT YEAR FOR SOMETHING'

AND KIM SAYS: 'I'M GONNA GO WATCH "WRATH OF THE TITANS" AND DRINK NOW, FUCK OFF PLEASE', AND ALSO 'ERGLEDEBOPWOP?!'

CHEERS LADS FOR READING THIS

BYE~~


End file.
